Return to Hogwarts
by mlocatis
Summary: AU: Snape survives the Battle of Hogwarts and returns to teach DADA. He has yet to cope with the fallout of all the years of being a double agent. Harry reaches out to him, but connecting with Snape is not easy. Will the returning students be able to cope with the remaining hatred and ill feelings left festering after the war? Snape mentors Harry/friendship, NO SLASH
1. Chapter 1

Snape closed his eyes. "Potter." He didn't have to look to know. He could feel the boy's presence, like an aura. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Harry entered into the office slowly, pretending to inspect the objects stacked neatly on all the shelves. "I always liked this office. Bet it's nice to be out of the dungeons—"

"Is there a point to this visit?" Snape demanded irritably.

Harry's gaze drifted to meet Snape's. "I just wanted to welcome you back."

"Thank you. Now, if you don't mind…." He gestured with is his wand at the door, which flew open.

"I still don't understand why you've been avoiding me," Harry burst out, frustration latent in his voice. "I sent how many owls this summer? And I got two lines as a reply. I can recite them for you. _No progress with the Sectumsempra research. Will be returning next term_. Not even full sentences. Do you have any idea—?"

"I don't need your pity, and I don't need to be looked after like some miserable child. And watch your tone, Potter. I won't be scolded in my own office—"

"It's not just me!" Harry cut in. "Professor, you were a the only reason we were able to defeat him. You did what no one else wanted to do, what no one else could do—"

"I am the very reason any of this was necessary," he hissed, losing control. The door slammed back shut and Snape spun around, his black clothing fluttering as he did so. "The reason he set out to kill you. The reason she had to die. The reason you had to walk to your death. So do not pretend that I am some—some grand martyr. I have been paying for my dearest mistake for all these years, nothing more."

"We all make mistakes—"

"This was cowardice. Treachery of the lowest sort. You've witnessed it, Potter. Don't deny it."

"But you spent years—you risked your life—"

"And what good did it do in the end?"

"What good?" Harry exclaimed. "You can't be serious. You helped to keep me alive all these years. You fooled Voldemort—"

"And none of it can undo the past."

"That was never the point! No one can do that. If that was what you expected, you set yourself up to fail."

"Get out, Potter. I'm not in the mood to be _cheered up_."

"No." Harry rounded the desk and planted himself firmly in front of Snape. "Why can't you even _talk_ about this? I mean, if you don't want to speak to me, fine. But talk to McGonagall, or Dumbledore's portrait—anyone. You're suffering—"

"And perhaps I deserve to suffer," Snape bit out, his voice cracking a little in spite of his best efforts. "I could not be a better man, not for her, not for you. I could not save Dumbledore. I could not protect the students of Hogwarts, even when I swore that I would—"

"You did everything in your power in a difficult situation—"

"I said that I don't need your pity. Go. I won't ask again."

Harry's eyes flashed like steel. "I'm not going. You _know_ how much you risked. You played the villain just so—"

"Playing the villain was never much of a stretch for me," Snape sneered. "Oh, it was only too easy. Too easy to loathe Lily Potter's son, who looked so much like his damned father. What, you thought it was all an act crafted to fool the Dark Lord? That I am truly so noble?" He shook his head bitterly to himself. "No, even after losing her I could not bring myself to learn from my mistakes, to show you the same kindness she once showed me. It was too easy to make you pay for your father's wrongs. Even after I sent the Dark Lord after him…."

"But that's just it," Harry protested. He tried to touch Snape's arm, but Snape shook him off and strode over to the window. "It was Riddle. Riddle who started this whole thing, Riddle who acted, Riddle who cast the killing curse. Not you—"

"I acted on his orders many times. I will not pretend that I was forced or coerced. I relayed the information freely. I am just as guilty. And there is nothing you can say to—"

"She would have been proud."

Snape rigid. He could feel the blood draining from his face.

"My mum. She would've been so proud of you."

"Don't," Snape warned him hoarsely.

"She left you because she was afraid of who you were becoming. I know that. I saw—"

"I gave you my memories because I thought—I was certain—I was about to die—"

"Our choices show who we really are. Dumbledore told me that. And you chose to put yourself in mortal danger for years to keep me alive when you didn't know _why_ , when you thought it was just for her. You were selfless in the end, and you fought for the right side. She would have been proud and grateful—"

"Out." Snape could feel the tears in his eyes, and he wasn't about to let the boy see them. "Out."

"I told you I'm not going anywhere."

A glass orb behind Snape shattered into a thousand pieces. Without turning, Snape waved his wand, causing the fragments to rise and mend back into a ball. He had to get a handle on himself.

"Potter, _please_ , leave me," he ground out. "I don't wish to have this conversation."

"Will you talk to Dumbledore?"

"It is not your place to—"

"Will you talk to him or not?"

"Fine," Snape hissed. "Leave—"

"Do you swear it, on his grave?"

"On his grave," Snape echoed mockingly, though his voice was far too hoarse to carry its normal cutting edge. "Now out—"

"You deserve to heal and move on. I don't care if you don't believe that. Besides, it's what she would have wanted. She cared about you—"

"Enough!" Snape shouted. He could feel the tears beginning to seep down his cheeks, winding their way along his nose. He whipped around and, brandishing his wand with a flourish, he sent Harry back out of the office, dragged from his collar as if by an invisible hand. With another flick he locked the door and warded it.

At last he slumped back down in his chair at the desk. What Lily had wanted. She'd wanted nothing to do with him, hadn't she? After he'd uttered that vile, unforgivable word. He'd been dead to her. He still would have been dead—worse than dead—had she lived, had the Dark Lord actually spared her.

And now? he thought sullenly. Oh, he'd saved her precious son. But how many times had he delighted in watching the boy suffer over the years? How many times had he chosen snide, cutting remarks, how many times had he called him arrogant and insufferable? Even now, when her son was trying to save him from himself, he found himself completely unable to act decently.

"Ahem."

Snape's hands balled into fists. He whipped around to the wall where, for some reason, he'd chosen to hang a painting—a still life. Yes, for some reason he'd left a door open for the subjects of Hogwarts' portraits to still intrude upon his privacy.

"What is it, Phineas?" he snapped, dabbing his eyes quickly on his cuff. "I believe my instructions were clear—only under dire circumstances—"

"Dumbledore wishes to chat." Phineas glanced around himself in the painting, appraising its subject, a table laden with food and drink. "Well, I wouldn't have gone with this at all, Severus. It clashes with the décor—"

"If Dumbledore wants a word, why didn't he come himself?"

Phineas paced around in the frame, still inspecting every aspect of the peculiar painting. "Something about the comforts of familiarity, his aching bones and the arduous trek it is down here, he hopes you will indulge him… the usual. He says to come at midnight, and that the password is—"

"Hopscotch, yes, I've been informed. Now begone."

Phineas harrumphed indignantly. "After all my work, you think you can dismiss me out of hand like some house elf? I think—"

Snape whipped his wand at the portrait and, with a loud crack, it split in two; Phineas managed to leap out of the frame just before the two halves hit the floor.

Potter had probably already spoken to Dumbledore. They were two peas in a pod, two little meddlers and schemers and manipulators…. He shook his head to himself and returned to his desk.

Impulsively he reached into his desk and pulled out the half of the torn photo, the one of Lily watching her son on his toy broomstick. He stared at her face, as he so often did, tracing the shape of her cheeks, the curve of her bright smile. He felt the tears rising again, and this time he did nothing to fight them down.

After everything he'd done, would she have forgiven him?

XXXXX

Snape sighed and roused himself from his bed. It was nearly time. Though he didn't understand why meeting earlier hadn't been a possibility, seeing as he had a class of rowdy second years to teach in the morning. He only hoped that they would all be as well-behaved and deferent as his first year class.

His wand lit before him, he made his way through the corridors up toward the headmistress' office. The faint sound of giggling met his ears.

He sighed to himself. Was it too much to ask for him not to encounter rulebreakers just _once_ , especially when he had somewhere to be?

He stopped dead in his tracks and extinguished his light, then moved carefully toward the sound of the soft tittering.

"Sh—sh! I think someone's coming!" a boy whispered from behind the stone statue of a witch.

"No one's there—you're just scared—"

"I swear I saw a light—"

Snape approached the side of the statue, where two young students, a Hufflepuff boy and a Ravenclaw girl, were huddled, peering out the other side. Snape allowed his wand to flare back to life.

The two fell over each other in their fright.

"Now, aren't the two of you supposed to be in bed?" Snape inquired silkily, rounding the statue and watching as they struggled to their feet. They couldn't have been older than third years. He held his wand out before him so he could get a closer look at their faces. "Gossamer," he identified the girl, "and… Fawley."

The two stared at him, wide-eyed, like paralyzed nocturnal animals.

"Professor," the Gossamer girl stammered, "I—we were just—"

"Heading back to your respective dorms. Five points from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw. Go on, before I change my mind and make it a detention."

The pair's expressions collapsed into relief.

"Thank you, sir," Fawley mumbled, clearly aware that they were being let off easy.

"Insipid flattery won't get you any points back. Run along."

Snape knew he was being extremely lax, considering what the usual penalty was. But he wasn't in the mood to quibble with students over their punishment. He just wanted to get this over with.

He reached the statue guarding the stairway to the headmaster's office without running into any more troublemakers. He gazed up at the repugnant stone gargoyle. "Hopscotch."

The gargoyle rotated with a great groaning, revealing a spiral staircase. Snape strode up, his robes billowing behind him, his glowing wand held aloft before him. When he reached the great wooden door leading to the headmistress' office, he tested the door and found that it swung in easily.

The office was, more or less, just as Dumbledore had always kept it, minus several of his personal odds and ends. McGonagall hadn't gone overboard in decorating, though she had moved her personal library into the space.

Snape conjured a fire in the hearth and sat in front of the headmistress' desk, eyes roving over the rows of portraits in search of Dumbledore's.

"Ah, Minerva remembered to leave the door unlocked."

Snape twisted to his left and saw that Dumbledore was there, just behind the desk, in a place of prominence. The shock of seeing him again, whole and untortured, caused his chest to tighten painfully.

"You wished to discuss something?" Snape inquired faintly through a stiff jaw.

Dumbledore smiled warmly at him, his blue eyes twinkling as they so often had. "Severus. I must say, I'm rather surprised that you haven't been to visit before now."

Snape looked away, focusing instead on the fire in the hearth, which was spitting and crackling noisily. "I've been busy."

"Things have gone so much better than we could have hoped. I thought you might wish to celebrate such a hard-fought victory."

Snape continued to stare at the logs, his eyes narrow. "We have accomplished what we set out to do. There's little more that needs to be said on the matter."

"Severus." Now a note of gentle admonishment entered into Dumbledore's tone. "You have acted valiantly, even in the face of death. Nothing short of great love and bravery could have called Fawkes to your side."

"I told you a thousand times over that I would not betray you. You know that I did all I could to aid Potter and his friends. You know I carried out your every order, even after…." For a moment he could see Dumbledore's limp body hurtling over the edge of the astronomy tower, the lingering glow of green in the air, the terrible, unbearable tightness in him as he struggled to appear indifferent. "I did not stop the Carrows when they began torturing students _on your orders_ , because I could not appear too soft."

Snape could feel the frantic rise and fall of his chest, the way his blood hummed in his veins.

"I watched Charity die _on your orders_. I watched the light leave her eyes, Albus. I listened as she pleaded with me to help her. Do you know what agony—"

"I do not," Dumbledore murmured softly.

His unexpected confession choked the words in Snape's throat. "It was necessary, I agree. I know it was. I could scarcely stomach it. But I did. I did not falter. I never strayed—"

"I am afraid I've not made my point very clear, Severus," Dumbledore interjected amiably, though Snape saw something akin to pain lurking in the lines of his soft smile. "To call Fawkes back to your side in that precise moment, to coax such potent tears capable of repairing such a grave wound… Harry may have won the day to all onlooking eyes, but Fawkes flew to you. You have performed extraordinary feats at the cost of great personal suffering. By all accounts, you have been instrumental in stopping the greatest threat to us since Grindelwald. And yet…."

"And yet what?" Snape demanded.

"You are still deeply unhappy."

"You've been talking to Potter."

"Harry, yes, and Minerva and Filius and many, many others."

"Do I need to repeat myself? I have watched colleagues die. And you. I—"

"There is a time for grief. But I fear that this is more, that you are sinking into the darkness and dwelling there, in the pain of loss and failure." Dumbledore shifted a little in his seat and adjusted his robes, though Snape guessed that he was only manufacturing a pause here, time for Snape to absorb his words. "Perhaps you do not believe that you can be happy."

Snape's lips pressed together tightly. "Perhaps I've forgotten how," he suggested dryly.

"Perhaps you believe that you do not deserve to be happy."

Snape looked away again. He said nothing for a very long time.

Dumbledore did not seem inclined to speak either, so there they sat, the fire flickering in the hearth, the rest of the headmasters sleeping soundly in their frames.

When Snape did at last respond, his voice was thick, choked over. "You believe I do?" he scoffed, though again, as before, the edge was lost in the brokenness of his voice.

"Severus," Dumbledore sighed, "I would argue that you, more than anyone, deserve happiness and respite."

Snape shook his head slowly to himself. "After I have caused so much pain? There was a time when I was ready to sell two Potter souls to save the one I pretended to care for, the one I jealously sought, as if she were a possession—"

"The man who came to me that fated night, pleading for Lily Potter's life, is not the man sitting before me today. I have known you for more years than I care to count, and you have been a dear friend throughout almost all of them. If you cannot trust my judgment on this—"

"I trust that you feel the need to assuage my guilt." Snape rose to his feet and paced over to the hearth, feeling too agitated to remain in his chair. "I trust that you always try to see the best in people. I trust that you are trying to do me a great kindness now. But there is no sense in dancing around the truth. I have never been _good_ , not like you, not like Potter. I have been loyal to you, to the memory of Lily."

"And have you not just told me what great personal cost you have borne for the sake of that loyalty?"

"We have all paid a great price for what has been achieved. That I am no exception is irrelevant."

Snape still felt the tightness in his chest. It had not left, had not let off. The Weasleys had lost a son, the Lupin boy two parents. The dead had littered the courtyard, at least fifty lifeless and still.

"The cost you have paid has been higher than most."

But he'd had no one left to lose.

Snape whipped back around to face Dumbledore. "You would say that to the parents who buried their children? To the children who buried their parents?"

"Those losses have been tragic, yes. But there was time to gather, to mourn, to comfort one another. You were forced to watch those atrocities unfold without being able to change anything, even to participate in Voldemort's barbarism. And you have done it alone, without reassurance, without recognition."

"And what is the point of this?" Snape demanded at last. "I will tell you the same thing I've told Potter. I do not need pity—"

"Harry doesn't pity you by far, Severus. He respects you. In spite of your best efforts, he cares for you." Dumbledore paused, as if gathering his next words. "I would like to think that Lily's spirit lives on in him. He looks like his father, but he has his mother's heart."

Snape could think of nothing to say. He stood there, trembling. His chest ached so sharply that it hurt to breathe.

"Do you think she would regret for an instant giving her life to destroy Voldemort that night?" Dumbledore asked quietly. " Because you forget, Severus, that but for her sacrifice, all might have been lost long ago."

Snape collapsed into the chair before the desk, tears already streaming down his cheeks. He could scarcely force his lungs to work. He could have saved her son a thousand times over. It would not erase what he'd done.

"She might not regret giving her life. But that has nothing to do with my betrayal—"

"You cannot think that, after everything you've done for her son, she would wish for you to be in this much pain?"

Snape lost himself in his tears then. They flooded down his cheeks, erupted and tore through his chest. He wrapped his arms around himself, fighting to hold together. But now, of all times, he could not summon that control and self-possession that he so often relied on.

Dumbledore's portrait watched silently, offering no words of solace. But Snape sensed his benevolent gaze all the same. He did not have to look up to see that.

A soft blue light flared behind him, bathing Dumbledore's portrait in a soft hue.

"Severus?"

McGonagall. Snape snapped to rigid attention, sitting up straight and attempting to dry his eyes, which he was certain were hideously red and swollen.

"Minerva," he choked faintly. "I didn't mean to disturb you—"

"Oh, Severus," she breathed, lowering her wand. She wore her dressing gown, a long tartan garment that flowed around her, and looked as if she'd just risen from bed. "No—there's no need to say a word. Let me fix us some tea." She seemed a bit flustered as she went searching for the kettle.

"I was just leaving," Snape mumbled.

"Please sit." Her normally stern tone was, for once, soft, almost pleading. She tapped the kettle, and a billow of steam immediately issued forth from the spout. McGonagall fussed over the cups for a moment.

Snape still had not resumed his seat. "Minerva, I'd best go. I have a class in the morning—"

McGonagall set both saucers down on the desk and made her way to Snape's side. She was a tall witch, but she still was an inch or so shorter than Snape. She took him firmly by the arm and squeezed, her blue-grey eyes meeting his teary gaze. She did not speak, but the strength of her hand on his arm and the mistiness of her eyes told him more than words ever could.

Snape could not help it, could not stop it. He was crying. Again. His lungs felt raw in his chest, and his jaw was so tight that he doubted he could speak.

McGonagall wrapped an arm around him, and for once Snape did not pull away instinctively. He stood frozen in the embrace, lost and broken, grieving the losses he had not been able to grieve for fear of giving himself away. But McGonagall's arm was like driftwood in a storm, the sturdy promise beneath him that he would not drown.

He dared to look up after a time and caught the sad smile on Dumbledore's lips, and—only briefly— a faint glimmer of liquid in the corner of his eye.


	2. Chapter 2

Snape straightened his notes carefully. It had been a late night, and he keenly felt the lack of sleep in his eyes.

He and McGonagall hadn't spoken much. But she had a way of silently conveying her support and empathy. And Snape had, surprisingly, felt extremely comforted by her presence, despite the vulnerable state he'd been in.

Because it had not been as if she'd been judging him. Rather, it had felt like a rare moment of openness. She had worn her sorrow on her sleeve as she sipped her tea, tears rimming her own eyes and misting their spectacles. The few words they had exchanged had been mostly anecdotes about Dumbledore, whose portrait-self had mused good-naturedly along with them about some of the highlights of his life.

It had been past three by the time he'd returned to his bed, and that with a class at nine sharp. McGonagall had suggested he simply cancel and get his rest, but he wasn't prepared to set a standard of leniency for his students.

He glanced at the clock on the wall again. The second hand passed the twelve. It was time.

He strode into the classroom, taking in the rows of students from the corner of his eye. They all went rigid as soon as he entered in, and most of them turned away, afraid to meet his eyes. Ravenclaw and Gryffindor. He couldn't help but appreciate the reverent hush that fell over the class as he made his way to the podium.

Snape took a moment to survey them all. He saw, far in the back corner, a small boy with dirty blond hair lean over to his friend, attempting to point subtly at Snape. He appeared to whisper something, which caused his friend to turn on him, alarm in his wide eyes.

Snape could almost guess. There was some strange rumor going around that he was actually a vampire, something that had given him a certain level of glamor and prestige amongst the Dark Lord's followers. He'd already heard rumors, most passed to him by his Slytherin students.

He cleared his throat loudly. The two boys fell silent.

"Before we begin your second year of Defense Against the Dark Arts," he began, "there are a few matters of… housekeeping… that we need to address." He watched as a few of the students in the front row quailed. "Firstly, jinxes, hexes, and curses taught or discussed in this class are not to be used against fellow students. Disciplinary action concerning improper use of these techniques will be reported directly to me, and in addition to whatever punishment you receive, failure to follow this rule will be reflected in your final grade. Three offenses is an automatic fail, no exceptions."

Snape paced slowly from the podium down through the rows of desks, his eyes roving over his students. Most had their heads down, parchment out, and were faithfully copying down class policy.

"Secondly, unlike your first year course, your second year will contain a strong practical element. Mastery of basic defensive and offensive spells will be critical to your success, and as such there will be mandatory practicum twice a week in the evening—"

A ripple of discontented murmurings went through the class at this announcement.

"Failure to attend will result in an incomplete for the course."

A haughty-looking, fine-boned Gryffindor girl with black pigtails raised her hand high in the air.

"Miss…?"

"Wasselkraus," she provided. She sounded extremely self-assured, almost to the point of arrogance. "Professor, two sessions a week seems highly excessive, especially for students with extracurricular activities."

Snape fixed her with a withering glare, but he didn't stop her. All eyes were on her, most of them wide and mortified at her boldness.

"Perhaps…." Her confidence seemed to be faltering. "Perhaps you could consider making exceptions for students who are extremely busy?"

"Miss Wasselkraus. Students in years past have been forced to self-organize supplemental Defense Against the Dark Arts instruction, even to the point of having to gather under the cover of darkness and without knowledge of the administration, due to substandard teaching and trying circumstances. And now you are telling me that the privilege of practicing extensively each week, so that you might be vigilant and prepared to defend yourself, your family, and the wizarding community, is a burden?"

The Wasselkraus girl was at a loss for words. She tried to force something out, but she couldn't seem to find her voice.

"Not only are you questioning the utility of a privilege for which students in years past have risked their lives," Snape continued coldly, "you are choosing to directly challenge a professor concerning the workload and methodology of instruction? Is that correct?"

The room was dead silent as Wasselkraus continued to flounder. "I only meant—"

"Your meaning was clear, Ms. Wasselkraus. Five points from Gryffindor for your hubris. Practicum will be run in four sessions. You will be allowed to register for two, with a third as your alternative choice. Sign-ups will be posted after class on my office door. Failure to sign up will result in random assignation." Snape turned to the board and waved his wand at the chalk, which began scrawling out the syllabus for the year.

"Finally," he continued, turning back to his students, surveying them carefully, "I wanted to address certain… rumors." He watched as several heads snapped up, their eyes wide. "Yes, they are true."

The two boys who had been talking before class stared at him, open-mouthed.

"I am a very demanding professor, and I set high standards for this class. You will not find it easy, and I will not be coddling you, as some of your other professors are wont to do. However, if you apply yourselves and make an effort, even the more dim-witted amongst you should be able to scrape an Acceptable."

The chalk had, by then, finished outlining the topics Snape would be covering for the first semester.

Weeks One and Two

Defensive and Disarming spells

Weeks Three and Four

Disabling Jinxes and Hexes

Weeks Five and Six

Stunning Jinxes and Hexes

Weeks Seven and Eight

Counter-jinxes and Hexes

Weeks Nine and Ten

Effective Combinations

Snape spent the rest of the class teaching the basic Shield Charm, lecturing on the proper wand motion and pronunciation of the incantation. He could not help but feel a little pleased to see that each of his students was, without exception, paying exceptionally close attention, and making a genuine effort to perfect the wand motion. He moved through the class as they practiced, making corrections as he noted errors.

"You won't be blocking anything if you wave your wand above your head like that." "There is no need to _stab_ your wand, Mr. Thomson. It is not a sword." "Adding the extra flourishes will not make your spell any more effective, Ms. Silverhand, only give your opponent an opportunity to get around your defenses."

Even more surprising to Snape than his students' good behavior was the general deference they showed him. After remarking—perhaps a bit snidely—that one of the Ravenclaw boys, Eric Birch, had somehow managed to completely reverse the simple wand movement.

The boy had blushed furiously and demanded, very nervously, in a trembling voice, if Snape would help him learn the correct movement. So Snape had spent a minute or two guiding the boy through the motion, until at last Snape informed him that the pattern was passable.

And the boy had beamed at him, blushing again, as if he'd been paid a very high compliment.

"A correct pattern is a far cry from an effective shield," Snape had told him coolly, expecting to see the boy's face fall.

But the boy continued to glow, though his grin fell into a determined line. "I'll practice very hard, sir," he promised.

Snape merely nodded and moved on.

At the end of the period, Snape rapped sharply on his desk to draw his students' attention. It was astonishing to him to see how quickly they settled down. Those who had not heard him were quickly silenced by their friends.

"For homework, you will be reading the first chapter of your text _The Dark Forces_ , as well as reviewing the Shield Charm in _A Standard Book of Spells, Grade Two_. In addition, I would like an essay on the advantages and disadvantages of the Shield Charm on my desk by Monday. Two rolls of parchment."

No one looked particularly pleased about their assignment, but there was no audible grumbling, which was highly unusual. His first years had been much more typical—though he supposed they had no memory of his tenure as Headmaster, and therefore likely did not fear crossing him as much as the others.

When class ended and most of the students had filed out, Snape found that a group of three lingered by his desk—two girls, one blond, one with short dark hair, and a tiny boy whose shaggy golden hair hung messily around his face.

Snape wiped the blackboard with a wave of his wand before pacing over to them, a brow raised. "Yes?" he demanded, looking them over.

"Sorry, sir, but I was just wondering if—if you had any recommended readings for the essay," the blond girl mumbled, speaking to her shoes. She clutched her notebook close to her chest.

"Did you think to perhaps speak to Madame Pince?" Snape inquired, a sardonic edge to his words. "I am given to understand that, being a librarian, she is thoroughly familiar with our collection of works here."

The girl bit her lip hard and turned away, looking to be on the verge of tears.

"What Emily means to ask," the short-haired girl cut in, "is if you could give us a list of—of suggested readings. If you don't mind, that is."

"We were hoping to be aurors," the small boy chimed in. "And so—well, we want to do very well in your course—"

"To be prepared for our O.W.L.s," the short-haired girl finished for him.

Snape arched his brow even higher and tilted his head. "You are aware," he said very slowly, "that you will not sit for your O.W.L.s until your fifth year?"

"Of course!" the blond girl, Emily, burst out. "But it's cumulative, and we want to be certain that we are well-prepared. And—"

The short-haired girl suddenly elbowed Emily in the ribs, shooting her a dirty look.

"And?" Snape pressed, lowering his voice to a dangerous whisper.

"And we want to learn all we can from you while you're here," Emily blurted out.

"While I'm here?" Snape repeated dubiously. "You think I'm going on holiday? Or are there rumors that I am on my deathbed?"

The short-haired girl glared fiercely at Emily, who was shaking her head vehemently, looking extremely flustered.

"We just heard that—that you were reluctant to come back, and that you might not stay for more than a year, and—and…. My parents work at the ministry, sir, and they said that you would be one of the best Defense teachers to have filled this post in ages. We just want to learn as much as we can from you."

Snape did not know what to think. Three young Gryffindors were standing before him, asking for his wisdom. Their parents had recommended they pay close attention to him. He was inclined to disbelieve his own eyes and ears.

"Your names?"

"Emily Tintwistle," the blond girl introduced herself shyly, her eyes still on her shoes.

The short-haired girl was at least confident enough to meet Snape's gaze. "Amphora Lofthouse. And this is Nathan Flume."

"Tintwistle, Lofthouse, Flume," Snape muttered to himself, scrutinizing their faces. He drew out a fresh sheet of parchment, dipped a quill in ink, and scrawled out the names of a few titles. _The Dark Arts Outsmarted. Defensive Magical Theory_. A bit advanced, he thought, but they could simply choose to not read them. After a moment of thought, he added, _A Compendium of Dark Creatures_ , though currently the curriculum covered identification and eradication of evil creatures primarily during the third year. Still, having a basic awareness early on would do them good.

Snape passed the parchment to them. "Those titles will do for a start, if you are serious about making an effort in this course. Though I warn you that most of the subject matter will be quite advanced for you…."

The three crowded around the list, looking over the titles eagerly.

"You'd best hurry," Snape advised them, "or you'll be late for your next class."

"Potions!" Emily cried, looking panicked. "Ooh, Professor Slughorn will be cross!" She snared her friends' wrists and started hauling them out of the classroom. "Thank you, professor!" she called.

Amphora was trying to free her wrist, looking rather resentful of being dragged along. "Emily, stop—"

"We're going to be late!" Emily hissed, her voice pitched high. "The dungeons is all the way downstairs—I forgot—"

Snape could not believe what he was about to do. But, he reasoned, they had only lingered to get a reading list from him. He would write them a note. Even if they were _Gryffindors_ ….

"Hold it," he called impatiently.

The three spun around, looking concerned.

Snape quickly penned a brief note to Slughorn explaining their tardiness. "Take this along," he commanded, holding out the parchment. "And next time make an appointment to see me in my office, so that you are not running late and disrupting my colleagues' classes."

"Yes, sir," Emily agreed, a grateful smile on her face as she accepted the note. "And thank you again—"

"Go on," Snape growled.

At last the three disappeared out into the hallway.

Snape sighed and began rearranging his notes. He would have a little time to prepare for his next course, which was not until just before lunch. And then in the evening….

His last class of the day would be his seventh year class, Hufflepuff and Gryffindor. Meaning he would have to face Potter again.

He was not ready for that, not by far. Especially after the words of comfort the boy had tried to offer him, and his response. Guilt needled him when he thought about his outburst.

He'd asked the boy to leave, he reasoned. He'd been upset. Potter should have respected that, should have left him alone, not pressed on. He certainly should not have spoken about her. Even if he had only meant to comfort him, to reassure him.

Snape found himself pulling her photo out again to stare at those kind eyes. She had always been that way—generous, warm. She had always asked after him, how his classes were going, how things at home were. Through the worst of it, her voice had been firm, insistent that it was not his fault, that there was nothing he could do to mend his parents' broken marriage or to stop his rampaging father. How often had he taken that for granted? How often had he assumed that she would always be there to prop him up?

He held the ripped photo to his chest again, as he so often had over the last year. There had been nothing but her face and the shred of the letter he'd pilfered from 12 Grimmauld Place to pull him through those darkest days, and so many times it had nearly not been enough.

He could not help but think back on Dumbledore's words. After all he had done… but what had he done, really? Treated her son with contempt, continued to wallow in the pettiness of his grudge against her husband. Continued to cling to her memory—because that, in the end, had been the only thing strong enough for him to form any kind of conviction.

If it had not been for Dumbledore's request that night she had died, he had no doubt that he would not have lasted the week. It had been hard enough, even after making his promise, to trudge on. Twice he'd begun brewing poisons that would have granted him a swift, nearly painless death, only to stop halfway through, fighting to remember his vow to protect the boy.

And now he was plagued by that same suffocating sense of hopelessness. He did not want to admit it, even to himself, but it was growing more powerful with each day that passed. Not for the first time, he thought of how much easier it would have been if he had simply died during the Battle of Hogwarts, if Fawkes had never reappeared. He had outlived his time, and now… now there was nothing to drive him, no sense of purpose, no feeling of urgency.

Teaching had never been a great passion for him. It had been a necessary chore, part and parcel of playing Dumbledore's faithful servant. His own Slytherin students had loved him, but that was a superficial love, he knew, born out of his blatant favoritism. He told himself that his bias was a part of his duty, that he needed to maintain a friendly relationship with the children of former Death Eaters in order to keep Dumbledore adequately apprised, but he knew the truth: he enjoyed it. He enjoyed their attention, their sense of loyalty, the way they would flock to him at the slightest perceived injustice. And in the end, their respect had been built on nothing more than his own weakness and prejudices.

It was good, he thought, that he was no longer Head of House. Let Slughorn deal with them. It would give him more time to himself, and perhaps less incentive to slip back into his old habits.

And it was one less duty tying him down. He thought back to the Gryffindor students' words about him not remaining for long. Perhaps they had been right—premonitory, even. Perhaps it had been wrong of him to return at all.

There were others, after all, who would gladly take his place here, especially now that the Dark Lord had truly been defeated. Minerva had told him that she was fighting off inquiries about the open Dark Arts post when she'd offered him the job. She would have no trouble finding a qualified instructor.

Snape shook his head to clear away the thoughts. Pathetic of him, he thought, to wallow in self-pity like this. So Potter no longer needed to be looked after. So he would no longer have to run to Dumbledore every other day, waiting for new instructions, giving his reports. Certainly he was not so wretched as to have no other purpose in his life. He would finish out the year. And from there he would reevaluate and see what paths were available to him.

He glanced down one more time at Lily's face. And, yet again, he could not help but feel the same overwhelming sense of inadequacy. Yes, Dumbledore was right. Lily would not have wanted him to suffer. She had always had pity for even the most revolting of creatures.

But what if the end of this suffering was not something that could be achieved while he still lived? a small, dark part of him whispered.

Snape stored the picture back in his desk. He would finish the term, miserable or not. He had signed on for this post, and he would hold it for at least the rest of the academic year.

Beyond that…. Snape closed his eyes lightly. There were many ways to slip away quietly, he knew, to make the transition comfortable. If it was truly that bad….

Snape once again forced himself to pull his thoughts from that dark and dangerous path. He had a class to prepare. Slytherin and Ravenclaw fourth-years, with curriculum designed around classification and theory of the Dark Arts, also with a strong practical component. He'd prepared an introductory lecture on the differences between jinxes, hexes, and curses, but knew that it was best to review it to make certain that he hadn't left out essential information. He'd been slightly distracted while writing it and did not trust that it was up to par with what he usually taught.

So he summoned his reference books and buried himself in the nuances of the evolution of the classification system and its relation to wizarding legislation, trying to distance himself from the creeping despair with the distraction of legal tedium.

XXXXX

"So. I think we should all visit Professor Snape." Harry looked pointedly at Ron and Hermione, anxiously waiting to see how they would react. It was early evening, and the three of them were clustered in a corner of the Gryffindor common room, not too far from the roaring fire.

"You're kidding," Ron said at last. "You saw how Snape was in class this evening. He wouldn't look at any of us, and he docked Neville five points for trying to ask him about the essay after class—"

"Well, he did say that he needed everyone out of the classroom so he could lock it up," Hermione said defensively, which earned her a dirty look from Ron. "Not that he couldn't have spared a few minutes, but still…."

"I tried to talk to him after the feast, but he wasn't… well…."

"You what?" Ron cried. "You actually went—look, Harry, I know he lied to You-Know-Who and got us the sword and risked his life and all, but really, mate, he's still downright _scary_. And I don't think he likes you very much. Wasn't really pretending about that, I don't think."

Harry ran a hand through his messy black hair. "It's complicated. I didn't tell you half of what I saw in his memories. And it's just—I mean, can you imagine what it must have been like, hanging around with Voldemort and all those Death Eaters, pretending the whole time that he was glad that the world was going to hell? He hated Pettigrew as much as me. More than me, I'd reckon, since Pettigrew was the reason that my mum died. And he had to just sit there and not say anything…."

"What happened when you went to see him, Harry?" Hermione asked.

Harry heaved a sigh, and told them both all about the encounter, and how he'd tried to make Snape see that he'd atoned for his mistakes. He was actually proud of how he'd tried to handle it.

But Hermione rolled her eyes at him. "You didn't."

"Well, what would you have done?" Harry demanded defensively. "I—"

"You just don't have that close of a relationship with him!" Hermione told him, exasperated. "Honestly, you can be so—so dense! It's clearly a painful subject, and he has clearly been projecting his pain and loathing for your father onto you—"

"Anyone could've told you that," Ron muttered.

"He doesn't want to hear from you that he's made amends," Hermione continued, ignoring Ron. "He doesn't care what you think. He associates you with your father, his enemy. So you trying to comfort him is likely in his eyes the height of arrogance."

"But I wasn't trying to be arrogant!" Harry snapped. "I was just trying to make him see—and he opened up a little, you should have heard him. It wasn't like I was trying to forgive him, not at all. I was trying to tell him how much we appreciated what he'd done, and then he started going on about how it was nothing, it was his fault in the first place, and that no matter what he did it couldn't undo the past. And I tried to tell him it was all rubbish and that he'd done more than enough, but he wouldn't listen."

Hermione listened quietly. Ron seemed taken aback.

"Snape feels… bad?" Ron forced out at last. "Still?"

Hermione rolled her eyes again. "Obviously. He was the one who overheard the prophecy. If he hadn't gone to Voldemort—"

"But that's just it," Harry interrupted. "It wasn't just Snape. Pettigrew was the spy; he went to Voldemort and gave my parents up. Snape at least tried to protect them by going to Dumbledore. And Sirius blamed himself because he suggested the switch. He felt so bad that he went to Azkaban without putting up a real fight. But it was Voldemort who chose to murder them, Voldemort who started all this."

"Of course, Harry," Hermione murmured. "I wasn't suggesting that it _was_ Snape's fault. But that's how he sees it—"

"And it's wrong. Besides, there's no use…." Harry turned away. "Listen, I've been thinking a lot over the summer, especially with all I know now. The way my dad and Sirius were… they were real gits. Not that the people Snape was hanging around were much better, but the way they treated him was just wrong."

"But that's not your fault," Ron grumbled. "It's not like you could've changed it—"

"I could've at least acknowledged it. I mean, I don't think even Dumbledore tried to help. And Sirius almost got Snape killed once." Harry shook his head to himself. "I keep thinking about my mum. What she would want me to do. Because they were friends once, you know. Really good friends."

"So you've been trying to reach out because of her," Hermione said. "For her. You think she would have forgiven him—"

"I know she would have. I can feel it."

Ron pushed himself to his feet. "Well, that's all well and good, but I don't see why we have to get involved—"

"Ron, we wouldn't _be_ here without him!" Hermione hissed, turning her fierce gaze onto him. "You realize that, don't you? We never would have even gotten through the first Horcrux!"

"Yeah, well—"

"He was at Voldemort's side that whole time! If Voldemort had known, if one little thing had gone wrong, you know how he would have died? You know what he did to Neville's parents! Imagine what he would do to his own servant—"

"Fine!" Ron snapped. "So what, we bring him sweets and a card that says, 'Thanks for being a Death Eater for us'?"

Hermione stood up and punched Ron in the arm. "This is serious!"

"I am being serious! He jinxed Harry right out of his office. Whadya think he's going to do to us?"

Harry stood too. "I don't know how we should go about it. But I'll think of something. I just don't want to go alone again. Ron's right; he's still not very fond of me. And Hermione too. We're definitely not close. But I just can't _ignore_ him. You know?"

Ron shook his head to himself. "But maybe we should just—I don't know, mention this to McGonagall, let her take care of it—"

"I have," Harry said. "And I don't think that's enough."

Hermione glanced down at her watch. "Ugh, I told a couple of third-years that I would help them with their Arithmancy homework… listen, Harry, I'm happy to do whatever I can. And Ron too."

"Speak for yourself—"

Hermione elbowed Ron in the stomach, shutting him up.

"Yeah, right. I'll have mum bake him some cookies," Ron said sarcastically.

"See you at breakfast tomorrow?" Harry asked.

Hermione nodded. "Night!" She darted out of the common room, likely toward the library.

"Dad was telling me that there's this muggle expression," Ron said to Harry once Hermoine was out of earshot. "Don't poke the bear. Is that right?"

"Yeah," Harry confirmed.

"Snape's the bear, Harry, and you're running up to him with a big, sharp stick. Look, you tried to help, but he doesn't want it. Just let him sort things out on his own."

"I'm just going to try to talk to him again. If he still doesn't want to speak to me, I'll give up. Happy?"

Ron slumped down onto the common room sofa. "No. 'Course not. But I know I'm going to get dragged into this, one way or another. Always am."

Harry slumped down next to him. "At least this time there won't be any giant spiders," Harry said cheerfully.

Ron shuddered. "Better not be. Because if there are, I'm out."

"Deal," Harry said.


	3. Chapter 3

There was a short knock on Snape's door. He looked up from his book, an obscure volume on the theory behind healing spells.

It was times like these that he wished he'd confiscated and figured out how to work Potter's blasted map.

"Yes?" he called.

"It's me, sir."

Potter again. He drew a deep breath. Well, he thought, he couldn't avoid the boy forever. Best to get this over with.

"Enter."

Harry slipped in, a friendly smile on his lips again.

Snape much preferred the boy's open hostility to this new attitude. It was unsettling to him.

"Sorry to bother you, sir. I just had a couple of questions about the essay you assigned."

"I would think your friend Miss Granger should be able to clarify for you," Snape muttered, rising to his feet and turning his attention to his bookshelf. "She rarely misses a detail."

"Well, it was more on the subject matter. I was just a bit confused on the line between Dark objects and plain magical objects. Like, certain enchantments can be beneficial to their owner—like the Hand of Glory, for example—but are still considered—"

"I believe the text covers this quite thoroughly, and I would refer you to that, as I did in class," Snape bit out. Then, working to calm himself, he pinched the bridge of his nose and, closing his eyes, he demanded, "Why are you really here, Potter?"

"I wanted to see how your research was coming."

Snape heard the lie in the boy's voice, and he was about to call him out on it, but something stopped him. It wasn't worth it, he thought. He would just update the boy without making a fuss and get him out.

"Poorly. I will notify you if I make any breakthroughs, as I've already promised. Now, if there was nothing else…."

Harry did not quit at that, though. "Well, I thought I could maybe help you. You know, comb through books for you or something—"

"Potter, you will be sitting for your N.E.W.T.s at the end of this year. And while I have no doubt that the famous Chosen One will have no trouble being named an Auror, you should not discount the importance of your examinations. If you hope to be effective in your position, you will need a wide breadth of knowledge."

"But sir, I can—"

"The answer is no. Concentrate on your classes."

"Professor, please, it would do me good to learn about undoing Dark Magic and developing original counter-curses. Consider it independent research—"

"I said _no_ ," Snape hissed, whipping around to fix the boy with his glare. "Don't think I don't know what this is. You're fishing for an excuse to hang about. And I think that I made it very clear not two days ago that I have no need of your company."

But just like before, Harry stared back, undeterred. "Would my mum have left you alone?" he asked quietly.

Again with this. The boy was goading him, trying to push him over the edge. "I am not discussing this with you—"

"Be honest," Harry demanded. "You knew her for a long time. Would she have just let you be if you were acting like this?"

Snape's jaw was clenched so hard that it ached. "Potter, you are a student here, regardless of what you might think or what special privileges you believe you have earned. You have no right to speak to a professor like this. You are crossing many lines here. I suggest you leave, before you make another grave misstep."

Still Harry did not move. Why did the boy have to be so stubborn?

"I know how my dad and Sirius were," he said quietly. The sudden change of subject caught Snape entirely off guard. "I've been trying to defend them for years, but the truth is they were awful to you. They were brave and clever and a whole lot of other things, but they were bullies too. And they both should have apologized to you."

Snape had to dig his nails into his palm just to keep himself grounded. He did not know what to say; he was caught between screaming and sobbing, and he did not know which was more appropriate.

"But they didn't do it while they had the chance," Harry continued. "So I just… I wanted to apologize, on their behalf. I want to believe that they both grew up a lot, and that they were ashamed—at least a little—"

"I _said_ that I do not wish to discuss this with you. I've already told you, I gave you those memories so that you would understand—so that you would see that I was sincere in my efforts to help you, so you would know that I had not tampered with them at the Dark Lord's behest. I do not wish for you to continually drag them up—"

"I'm just trying to say that you were right. That I understand why you've hated me all these years. I'm ashamed of what my dad did, and I just wish that he could've had the courage to admit that he'd acted badly. Because then… maybe…."

"We could've been friends?" Snape sneered.

"You could have made peace. Shown her that you'd grown too."

"You don't know the half of that story." He stalked over to the window and gazed down at the grounds. "I had many opportunities to turn from that path. I was too proud, too desperate to prove myself, to be appeased with a mere apology." Snape drew a deep breath. "We will not discuss this again. Now leave."

"Sir—"

" _We will not discuss this again_."

"If you can forgive them, then you have to believe that my mum could forgive you—"

"Potter, if you breathe another _word_ on this subject, I swear that you will be serving detentions for the next month, Chosen One or not. Go."

That, at least, managed to shut the boy up. But still he stood there like some dim-witted troll, too stupid to take a hint.

"Let me help you with your research. If you do, I swear I'll never say another word about any of this."

Snape lost his temper at those words. He glared at Harry fiercely, his lip curling in a snarl. "Are you threatening me?" he demanded. "Are you planning on continuing to torment me if you don't get your way?"

"No!" Harry cried. "I'm not trying to _torment_ you…." The boy actually looked mortified. "I just… I wish things could be different. That, after everything, we could get along. I should have realized that I've just been making things worse. I'm sorry."

Snape sank down into his chair, suddenly feeling very tired. Of course. Of course Lily's son was just trying to do him a kindness. He might as well call the boy something unforgivable right now and get it over with.

"Spare me the martyr act, Potter," Snape muttered. "If you haven't realized by now that I am generally an unpleasant person, you're even denser than I thought." Snape took his book back up and began leafing through it, searching for his place. "Don't waste your time trying to fix the unfixable. It will only turn out badly for the both of us."

Harry approached Snape's desk, looking surprised, a bit wary, but mostly determined. "Please, just let me help. Just with the research. We'll keep it strictly professional, and only talk about the readings."

Snape tried to angle his book as to block out the boy's face, but Harry just leaned in further so that it was impossible to ignore him.

"It'll make me feel better too. George was only there because he was trying to protect me—"

"You did not cast the curse," Snape cut him off angrily. "You do not have to fix my mistakes—"

"That's not what I meant," Harry backtracked hastily. "I just meant that—that the Weasleys are like family, and I want to be doing everything I can to help."

"I think you remember what happened the last time I tried giving you private lessons," Snape articulated softly. "Drop it, Potter—"

"These won't be lessons though! You just tell me what to read, or what I can do to help. I can even run books from Madame Pince, or organize your notes, or—"

"Fine," Snape hissed, "fine. But if you breathe one word about anything _other_ than reversing the effects of the Sectumsempra curse, we are finished. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

"Yes sir," Harry agreed, pushing himself back from Snape's desk.

Snape reached into his desk and dragged out the folder he'd been keeping. He rifled through it until he found his most recent reading list. He inked a quill and, after striking through a few of the titles he'd already skimmed, he passed the parchment over to Harry, who began scrutinizing it.

"Start with that. Ramkin's _Evolution of Dark Arts Theory_ seemed most promising, particularly the section on Vermillion's lock-key model of incantations."

Snape could tell that the boy was struggling not to look too overwhelmed. Alas, he thought, if only he'd inherited his mother's brain…. Maybe he could dismiss the boy on the premise that he was more of a hindrance than a help.

Knowing him, he would likely wheedle Granger into doing the work for him. He just wanted to use this arrangement as an opportunity to spy on Snape….

"Er… right. I'll get on this then. When should we meet up to touch base?"

"Why don't you contact me if you find something?" Snape suggested smoothly. "Until then, there should be plenty on that list to keep you busy."

Harry continued to scrutinize the list of over twenty titles. "Okay. Sounds good."

"And this will not be an excuse for handing in poor or late work, Potter," Snape added sharply. "If you dip below 'Acceptable' even once, this arrangement is over."

Harry's head snapped up at that. "Right," he agreed easily.

"In _any_ of your classes," Snape clarified, keeping his voice very soft.

That seemed to take some of the wind out of the boy's sails. "Of course."

Snape picked his book up again.

"See you Thursday, Professor." Harry left then.

Snape took a moment to contemplate why he would be seeing Potter before their class on Friday. Then it struck him.

Why, he wondered, had he insisted on practicums for every class above the first year?

XXXXX

"Where do we have to go again?" Ron demanded through a mouthful of mashed potatoes.

He, Hermione, and Harry were just finishing up their dinner, and preparing to go to their practicum for Snape's class. None of them really knew what to expect, though Ron seemed to think that it would be a half an hour of Snape shooting curses at them.

"The History of Magic classroom," Hermione replied promptly. "Ron, would you _please_ finish chewing before you speak?"

Harry smirked. "I thought you found it charming," he teased.

Hermione snorted. "About as charming as the spot of dirt on his cheek—"

Ron swallowed thickly and, a faint blush spreading over his face, picked up a napkin and began his cheek vigorously. "Thought you were my girlfriend," he muttered, "not my mother."

"Well, if you'd just act your age, I wouldn't _have_ to be your mother—"

"So Hermione, did you get a chance to look over any of Snape's books?" Harry interrupted, deciding it was time for a subject change.

Hermione sighed. "No! Do you have any idea how much work I have this year? And on top of that, I'm doing all I can to help McGonagall—"

"You're doing too much," Ron interrupted. "Just because you're Head Girl—"

"This has been a difficult year! They still haven't repaired all the damage to the castle, and there has been an unprecedented number of students with injuries and special accommodations. I've been very busy trying to keep on top of administrative duties for McGonagall. So no, I haven't had a chance. But really, Harry, _you_ were the one who promised—"

"I know," Harry cut her off, flushing a little with shame. "I know. I just thought—you know, if you had a spare moment. But I can handle it."

"Honestly, mate," Ron said, shaking his head, "you've got to be a masochist or something. I'm not even sure George wants his ear back. You know he got a placard made for his office that says Holey St. George, don't you? Mum doesn't think it's funny at all, but he won't take it down."

Harry prodded at the half of a sausage that remained on his plate. "It's more than that. Helping with research was the only excuse I could come up with to spend time with him—"

"You sure you weren't brain-damaged when You-Know-Who blasted you?" Ron interrupted, making the speculation not for the first time. "Look, you tried to make him feel better. He sent you flying out of his office. Just take the hint."

Harry pushed his plate away from him, deciding he was done. "It's not that simple. Anyway, we're still going to see him Saturday, right? After Quidditch tryouts?"

"Of course," Hermione agreed.

Ron just grunted, but Harry took it as an affirmation.

"We'd better get going," Harry said, glancing down at his watch, "if we want to be on time…."

Ron sighed and pushed himself away from the table. "Can't be late for old Snapey's class, now, can we? Wouldn't want Harry to disappoint his new favorite teacher."

Harry ignored Ron.

The three of them made their way down the hall toward the classroom, with Ron and Hermione lingering behind Harry, as usual, so that they could hold hands.

Harry didn't mind. It gave him a little time to think about how he was going to handle this upcoming session. At least, he thought, it was short, just half an hour. But the scant number of seventh year students enrolled in the class meant that all houses would be present for this session, including the few Slytherins who'd returned. And that meant that not only would he be juggling Snape, but Draco as well.

"We weren't supposed to bring our books, were we?" Ron asked suddenly, just as they rounded the corner to the classroom.

"Well, as it's a practicum, I highly doubt it, but—"

"You brought them just in case," Harry and Ron said in unison, smirking at each other.

Neville was waiting outside the classroom, hanging close to the wall, along with Luna, who was staring intently up at some invisible thing near the ceiling.

"Hiya Harry," Neville greeted him. Ron had started whispering something to Hermione, who was grinning. They seemed fairly absorbed in each other, and Neville seemed disinclined to interrupt them, so he focused on Harry. "Having a good start of term?"

"Good as can be expected."

Neville gave him a lopsided grin. "Yeah, kind of weird being back here, isn't it? After everything…." Neville lowered his voice to a whisper. "Especially with Snape."

Harry frowned slightly. "Yeah. But I guess it's better to have him completely ignore us."

"Right! He wouldn't even look at us in class, did you notice? Acted like half the room was empty. But you're right, guess it's better than having him breathing down our necks—"

The door to the classroom flew open, and Snape's cold voice echoed from within. "Were you five planning on joining us sometime tonight?" he demanded impatiently.

The five of them quickly scurried inside, where the other students were already waiting. Three Slytherins—Draco Malfoy, Daphne Greengrass, and Pansy Parkinson—and one lone Hufflepuff, Heather Dinnett, a quiet girl whom Harry had never actually spoken to.

Upon seeing Harry, Pansy turned her body away from him, her face flushing a deep red. Harry averted his gaze and pretended not to notice her or the other Slytherins.

Harry, Luna, Neville, Ron, and Hermione all chose to file into the right side of the classroom. The desks and chairs had been cleared out of the middle, leaving the room mostly empty for whatever activities they would be doing.

Snape was waiting for them at the front, though he only briefly looked in their direction before turning his attention back to the Slytherin contingent. "These sessions will be devoted to perfecting your use of nonverbal magic," he began slowly, pacing along the blackboard. His black robes billowed out behind him. "When confronted with an opponent, two of your greatest advantages are speed and the element of surprise, both of which can be achieved only through rigorous drilling. We will begin with review of the basics, primarily the Shield Charm, which I expect you shall master completely by the end of this course. Your final grade will, in part, hinge on your ability to effectively block hostile spells nonverbally…."

Snape had them pair up then. Heather readily joined the Gryffindors and Luna, so that the Slytherins were left in a rotating trio. Harry partnered with Ron (who knew how poor his chances were against Hermione), Hermione with Luna, and Neville with Heather.

Snape instructed them to use this session to practice casting disarming and Shield charms only, with partners alternating between being attackers and defenders.

"Reminds you of the D.A., right?" Ron said under his breath as he and Harry squared off. "You could probably take Snape's place—"

"We are practicing _nonverbal_ spells, Mr. Weasley," Snape called from behind him. "Meaning that there is no reason to speak."

Ron rolled his eyes.

Harry shrugged at him.

Despite the apparent simplicity of the exercise, Harry found that, yet again, it was very difficult to muster the concentration necessary to effectively cast even these spells, what Harry had once called the "bread and butter" of the wizard's arsenal. Then again, it wasn't as if he and Ron had been practicing extensively over the past year. They'd been a little busy with other things.

Luckily, neither of them were very good—either with the disarming spell or the shield charm. Mostly, they stood there, waving their wands at each other, faces fixed in constipated grimaces. By the end of the session, Ron had managed to disarm Harry once, Harry had disarmed Ron twice, and only Harry had successfully blocked one of Ron's disarming spells.

From the looks of the pleased expression on Hermione's face, Harry guessed that she had been rather successful. Then again, she'd done very well mastering nonverbal spells during their sixth year and had never shown signs of giving up on her efforts.

"All right," Snape called brusquely from the front of the room. "Line up. You will each attempt to block my disarming curse before you go, so we can see what progress you've made, if any."

The Slytherins went first. Pansy and Astoria both failed at their attempts, causing Snape's lips to turn down slightly in disapproval. Draco managed to whip his wand up in time—though just barely, since he stumbled back—deflecting Snape's spell without uttering a word.

"Good," Snape approved. "You may leave once you've been tested."

The Slytherins did not linger after that. They exited the classroom in a tight pack, not looking back at Harry or the others.

Neville stepped up next. Harry was surprised to see that, when he lifted his wand, his arm trembled.

If Snape noticed, he gave no sign. The professor's face remained blank as, without warning, he slashed his wand upward.

Neville did not manage to block the spell, which hit him squarely in the chest. His wand went flying off to an empty corner of the classroom.

Harry ran to retrieve it, casting a glance at Snape, whose expression twisted for the briefest of seconds into an emotion Harry could not quite place.

As Harry moved to give Neville his wand back, Snape announced, "That was a pathetic attempt, Longbottom. Have another go at it."

Neville winced.

Harry pretended to trip so that he could lean in and whisper to Neville. "You stood up to Voldemort and beheaded his snake, but spell practice with Professor Snape scares you?"

Harry's words had the bolstering effect he intended. Neville seemed to steady a bit once Harry had framed the situation in those terms.

Back in place, his wand ready, Neville looked much more determined and undaunted this second time.

There was a flash of white-blue as Snape whipped his wand, but the light dissolved uselessly before it reached Neville.

Harry couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw the corner of Snape's mouth twitch up in grim approval.

"You're dismissed."

Neville looked only too relieved to leave Snape's presence.

Hermione, of course, had no trouble blocking Snape on his first attempt. He merely nodded to her with apparent disinterest. She smiled nervously at Ron and Harry before disappearing out into the hall.

Heather Dinnett failed miserably at her attempt, and Snape sent her away without giving her a second chance, just as he had with Pansy and Astoria. Luna, however, proved to be remarkably adept at the charm, deflecting Snape's spell almost as easily as Hermione had.

Ron, however, was just as dismal as he'd been against Harry. He barely managed to lift his wand before it went soaring out of his hand, landing in Snape's.

Snape arched a condescending eyebrow at him. "Slacking off, Weasley?" he inquired coolly.

Ron cleared his throat. "Should probably practice that a bit more…."

"Indeed," Snape agreed, his mouth barely moving. He tossed Ron his wand. "You're dismissed."

And then it was just Snape and Harry. If Snape felt anything, he did not let it show in his face, which was as stony and unreadable as the stone wall behind him.

Harry gripped his wand and tried his best to focus. He readied the words in his mind. _Protego. Protego. Protego. Pro—_

Snape's wand flashed. Harry's mind blanked. He lifted his wand, but there was no spell readied, and so the force of the Expelliarmus Charm washed over him, sending his wand flying from his hand.

"Concentrate," Snape commanded. With an cursory flick of his wrist, Snape sent Harry's wand flying back into his hand. "Stop fixating on the incantation and pay attention to your opponent."

Harry flushed, feeling a prickle of anger rise in him. "Stay out of my mind—"

"I do not need to read your mind to see the glaring mistake you are making. Focus on me and trust your reflexes."

Harry was still bristling, but he beat his anger back and forced himself to do as Snape commanded. This time, he caught the barest ripple of Snape's sleeve. With enough time to react, but not to think, he instinctively erected a shield in front of himself, unconscious of the incantation itself, successfully blocking the disarming charm.

Snape lowered his wand. "That will do for tonight."

Harry stared at Snape in shock for a few moments. Had the man actually taught him something useful? Of course he'd intended to turn over a new leaf with his professor, but some part of him had believed the man to be incapable of effective instruction, given his propensity for sniping at and insulting his students.

"Right," Harry mumbled, coming out of his dazed state. "Right, of course. Thanks, sir."

Snape did not respond. So Harry left to meet his friends in the hall.

Luna and Neville had waited with Ron and Hermione.

"I don't care what you say," Neville muttered as the five of them headed off to the staircase. "Snape's way scarier than Voldemort."

"Bloody fast with a jinx, too," Ron muttered.

"If you would just put in the effort," Hermione began, but Harry interrupted.

"Would you two stop bickering already? Save it for when you're married."

Both Ron and Hermione flushed at Harry's words, casting their gazes to opposite sides.

"Why isn't Ginny taking Defense Against the Dark Arts?" Luna wondered aloud suddenly.

Harry smiled a little to himself. "Doesn't have time. She took up a part-time position with the Daily Prophet. They have her writing Quidditch articles every week."

"Yeah, they have her running around the country on weekends," Ron griped. "McGonagall gave her special permission to go. Gets free tickets and everything. And d'you think she could get a couple for me?"

"Well, given your inability to block a simple charm tonight, maybe you don't need to be running off to Quidditch matches. Maybe you should be spending more time—"

"You're a nightmare!" Ron burst out, and stalked off ahead of them.

Hermione rolled her eyes and let him turn down the corridor before hurrying off after him. "Ron, come on—"

Neville turned to Harry, alarmed. "Is everything all right between them?"

Harry couldn't suppress his smirk. "Yeah. They've just gone off to snog. It's a little weird, but it's sort of their thing. You get used to it."

Harry was just about to suggest that they walk Luna up to the Ravenclaw common room when he heard a shriek echo far down the hall.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Thanks to everyone for feedback so far! I haven't replied to individual comments because I am trying to push out as much material on this as possible while I'm inspired.**

 **On a side note (mostly, shameless self-promotion), if you can't get enough Snape, I am also currently working on a Harry/Snape adoption fic that you can check out! (Snape's Promise).**

 **As always, all feedback is super appreciated, and thanks to everyone for reading!**

Snape had just set the classroom back in order for Professor Binns and was gathering up his notes when the door to the room burst inward. To his utter shock, his seventh years trooped back in—or, a good portion of them, at least—all of them pale to the extreme. He easily picked out the two Slytherins, Draco and Daphne, as well as Potter, Longbottom, and the Lovegood girl. Where Granger and her Witless Wonder had gotten off to he didn't know and didn't care.

He wondered what could have possibly inspired them to return to the class when he saw the unconscious body levitating in behind them, guided at the tip of Potter's wand.

Pansy Parkinson. And Snape could already see the great deep gash that passed in a diagonal line from her forehead across her chest all the way down to her right thigh. Snape's mind was already working a mile a minute, trying to piece together what had happened.

Clearly it had not been a skirmish between his students. Potter wouldn't be bringing the unconscious girl in, no other student bore a mark (though after Parkinson's deplorable spellwork, that was hardly surprising), and beside that, they all knew better.

Potter carefully lowered the girl, his former student, down before the man, his face ashen.

"Professor, we heard her in the corridor," Potter began. "The cut—is it—"

Snape almost snorted at Potter for the ludicrous suggestion he nearly voiced. As if _his_ spell was widespread knowledge. A quick wave of his wand over the girl's body confirmed the obvious. "A Severing Charm," he muttered, sinking to his knees. "I need silence," he warned the students testily as he appraised the wound.

The warning had been more for show than anything. He knew his students, and their collective gravity now was highly palpable.

" _Vulnera sanentur…."_ Snape uttered the incantation carefully, feeling each syllable in his mouth as he traced along the deep gash. He moved slowly, careful not to pass the tip of his wand along until the he was certain the spell had done its work. He repeated the incantation twice more, tracing the girl's wound just as carefully each time. He was satisfied to see that, on the third pass, the muscle began to knit and the open wound began to reseal.

It was crude, compared to what Poppy could and would do for Parkinson. But the procedure had served its purpose.

Snape wasted no time admiring his work. He quickly checked the girl's pulse—feeble, but there—and observed her breathing for a full minute before at last rising and turning to address the two Slytherins.

"What happened?" he demanded quietly. His stony voice made his expectation of a concise, immediate answer very clear.

"I don't know." Draco was very pale, his lips nearly bloodless, and his eyes were filled with a bright, terrible fear. "She went on ahead in a huff, and we just—we heard her scream, heard the spell—and we found her like this."

Without turning to face them, Snape commanded, "Lovegood, Longbottom, go directly to the hospital wing and inform Madame Pomfrey of what has occurred. Have her prepare essence of dittany."

Luna and Neville turned to leave the classroom immediately.

"The Floo," Snape snapped, thrusting his chin at the classroom's fireplace.

In seconds both Luna and Neville had disappeared through the grate in a flash of green fire.

Snape conjured a stretcher beneath Parkinson and lifted her body gingerly once more, though he let it hover there in the middle of the classroom.

"Did you see who was responsible?" Snape demanded, directing the question to no one in particular.

"No, sir," Draco replied promptly. "By the time we arrived she was already on the ground."

"And I didn't get there until after Draco," Harry provided.

Snape ignored him completely, his burning black eyes flickering between Draco and Daphne. "And Miss Parkinson has not, I assume, been picking fights in her spare time?" he inquired dangerously, his words positively icy.

He did not have time for this nonsense, not anymore. Besides, how colossally stupid could the girl be? Surely the idiot knew she had a massive target painted on her back…. He'd been surprised, in all honesty, to see the girl back at all, especially after there had been rumors of her and her family receiving death threats.

Snape noticed how Malfoy's eyes fell to the side, evasive. Daphne swallowed thickly and began blinking very rapidly. Pathetic attempts that Snape saw through immediately.

"Speak," he growled.

Draco opened his mouth, but he shut it again, like a fish gasping for air.

But it was Daphne's clear voice that rang out, to Snape's surprise, to answer his question. "She hasn't, sir. She's been keeping her head down, but…."

"But?" Snape pressed.

Daphne cast a nervous glance at Potter.

Snape followed her gaze, though he was utterly confounded. He didn't like the boy, but Potter certainly wasn't the kind to go cursing classmates for fun, especially not this year. He'd even seemed to have bury the hatchet with Malfoy. As far as Snape could tell, he'd fully embraced the atmosphere of fragile harmony forged in the wake of the Dark Lord's fall.

Not that the boy had ever really gone looking for trouble, he thought. Not with other students. He was just easily provoked, with a massive ego as fragile as glass, meaning that trouble naturally sought him out.

So the Slytherins' nervous glances in the Chosen One's direction remained a mystery.

"But Potter has it in for her?" Snape guessed sarcastically.

"I don't—" Potter began indignantly, but Snape cut him off.

"Quiet, Potter." Had the boy thought him to be serious? "Miss Greengrass? Miss Parkinson kept her head down, but…?"

Daphne cleared her throat. "There's a lot of whispering and—and hostility, and… sir, this is really a House matter—"

"And I am not your Head of House," Snape reminded her curtly. "Spit it out."

"Sir," Potter interrupted, "I could leave—take Pansy down—"

"Don't move, Potter. I want a word."

Snape couldn't help to feel a little pleased when Potter remained rooted to his spot, not even a grunt of protest.

Daphne's eyes flickered to Potter one last time before they fell back to the ground. "Professor, I'm sure you've heard what people say." She dropped her voice low, so that it was barely a whisper. "That we should never have come back. That we have no right to show our faces here again, after everything…."

"And what does this have to do with Miss Parkinson having been cut nearly in two?"

Daphne flushed. "Well, some people are doing more than whispering and shooting dirty looks."

Snape's lips pressed together even more tightly. "There have been other incidents." It was not a question, and he did not wait for confirmation. "Why, pray tell, have you not gone to Professor Slughorn, or better yet, the Headmistress?"

A slight blush pinkened the girl's cheeks. "As if she would do anything!" Daphne hissed. "You were there—you know how she treated us. Locked us in the dungeons, all of us!" To Snape's surprise, there were a few tears sparkling in the corners of the girl's eyes.

"If I remember correctly…." No, Snape stopped himself. It was not the time. "Very well, then why not speak to Professor Slughorn?"

The girl dropped his gaze. "Professor Slughorn is very… busy," she sneered. "You know, with his precious little club… besides, he would just tell us to try to mediate through the prefects…."

"Malfoy?" Snape demanded, keeping his voice low. "Have you said anything?"

The blond shook his head briefly, his jaw clenched.

Daphne suddenly fixed her nervous blue eyes on Pansy's levitating body. "Is she going to be—"

"She will be fine," Snape reassured her swiftly. "The two of you will accompany her down to the hospital wing and wait for me there, and together we shall have a word with Professor McGonagall—"

"Sir!" Daphne protested. "No, you can't! It will only make it worse—"

"I do not believe I asked your opinion on the matter, Miss Greengrass. Go. Do not make me ask twice."

Draco's watery eyes flashed over to Potter for a moment too, then rapidly back to Snape. "She's right, professor," he croaked. "You have no idea—"

Snape leaned down so that he was level with the two students, though he recognized as he did so that the distance was now considerably shorter than it had once been. Draco was nearly as tall as he was.

He dropped his voice to a deadly whisper, one that he doubted even Potter would hear. "I would wager that I _do_ have an idea of what it is like to find yourself on the wrong side of a war," he told them both quietly, making sure to keep his expression fierce and foreboding. "We will discuss this later, after Miss Parkinson's injuries have been seen to."

To his grim satisfaction, both students lowered their heads, kowtowed. Draco was the one to use his wand to assume control over the Levicorpus charm from Snape, and carefully maneuvered Parkinson's body before him down through the hall.

Once the door to the classroom clicked shut behind them, Snape sighed and turned to Potter, who was shifting nervously from foot to foot, his wand clasped in his hands behind him. The boy's gaze flickered up to him expectantly.

It was too strange, Snape thought, to see Potter looking at him so… normally. Ah, but he'd set the tone for their dynamic long ago, he thought to himself.

And Potter was the one changing it now, gazing at him politely with bright green eyes, waiting for instruction. Though he was satisfied to see just a slight hint of nervousness behind his Gryffindor bravado.

"Yes, sir?"

Too strange, he thought. Not a word of premature protest, no insistence that he'd done nothing wrong. Just respect, and a bit of fidgeting.

Snape drew a deep breath. "Do you still harbor any animosity for Miss Parkinson?" he asked Potter abruptly, searching the boy's gaze.

That got a rise out of Potter, just like before. "I didn't curse—"

"I am not _accusing_ you. I am asking a simple question." Snape fought the urge to shoot a sneering remark at the boy about him losing his temper. Old habits died hard….

Instead, he pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting back his irritation. "I am well aware that it was Miss Parkinson who suggested last year that you be given over to the Dark Lord to appease him. It was an act of cowardice, and you've every right to harbor resentment. But I am asking you now, point blank, if you _do_ , indeed, still bear her some ill will for that and her role in last year's events."

Events. Such a nice euphemism for war, Snape thought.

Snape could see the question forming on Potter's lips, could hear it echoing in his mind. _What's it matter?_ A rude, useless evasion that would prolong this conversation, which by all accounts should have been rather short and simple.

But the boy's lips stilled and, instead, he answered rather plainly, "No."

And Snape believed him. He nodded, more to himself than to Potter. "Good. Then I have a request."

Potter's eyebrows shot so high at that they nearly disappeared from his forehead. "A _request_?" he asked incredulously.

Snape arched a brow at the boy. "Yes. A _favor_."

Potter still looked bewildered, but he managed to pick his jaw up from the ground. "Right. Yeah. What is it?"

"Miss Parkinson will likely be in the hospital wing tomorrow, still recovering from this run-in." He could not believe he was asking this.

But it was logical, he told himself, a means of keeping peace. And Potter was, for some reason, chomping at the bit to do him favors and kindnesses—likely due to misplaced guilt—and Snape knew it would be foolish not to take advantage of the situation.

"If you would, drop by her bedside and visit for a short while. Bring friends. Make your visit public."

Harry was nodding slowly to himself. "In short… get the message across that it's not okay to hex Slytherins just because of… past events. Without riling people up or anything. Just show my support and sympathy."

Potter chose to adopt his euphemism. The corner of Snape's mouth twitched. And the boy was usually so blunt, so ineloquent. At least he'd had drawn the proper conclusion, meaning Snape wouldn't have to lead him to it by the hand.

"Precisely."

A lunatic grin suddenly split Potter's face.

"Is something funny?" Snape demanded flatly. Had the boy been brain-damaged when he'd been hit with that Killing Curse again?

"Well, no," Potter admitted, though his lips were still stretched wide and his eyes were full of mirth. "I just—I was trying to imagine Dumbledore prodding me into doing the same thing." He adopted his best kindly-grandfather voice. "Harry, a small gesture of kindness can go a long way to mend fences—er—bridges…." Harry dropped the weak imitation. "Something like that."'

Was the boy saying that Snape had somehow become as manipulative and meddlesome as Dumbledore?

"Though it's nice to be asked to do something without it being presented as a riddle," Potter mused.

Snape could not fight his grin at that, though it remained small and tight. Yes, he'd often felt the same way.

"I'll go," Potter agreed, though it was an unnecessary statement of the obvious at that point. "Was there anything else?"

"No. You're dismissed."

But still Potter lingered. "I, ah, I haven't had a chance to do any research—"

"I thought we'd agreed you would update me when you actually found something useful?" Snape inquired dryly.

"Right."

"Well?" Snape demanded. "Do you want to be escorted back to your Common Room like a First Year? Is that why you're still skulking here?"

" 'Night, professor," Harry mumbled hastily, and without further invitation ducked out of the classroom.

Snape shook his head to himself. Too strange, he thought.

But in a way, it was nice to not be putting quite so much energy into loathing the boy.

XXXXX

Ron stared blankly at the three other Gryffindors over their table in the library, as if they'd all suddenly turned into goblins.

"We're—what?" he repeated stupidly.

"Visiting Pansy," Ginny repeated slowly, making sure to stretch the words out. "Keep up."

"Bloody hell, Harry, first you want us to have tea with Snape, and now we're visiting random Slytherins? I mean, it's awful that she got sliced open, but I don't see how that's our problem."

Harry was glad that Ginny and Hermione at least seemed to be on board. He'd thought to ask Luna and Neville, but he hadn't run into them before lunch.

Hermione glared at Ron. "Right now, there are some students out there who think it's okay to go around almost killing the people they don't like. If it was Slytherins who'd cursed some random Hufflepuff—"

"Point taken," Ron muttered. "But I'm just saying, they kind of brought it on themselves—"

Harry huffed and slammed his book shut, causing Ron to flinch. "We can't afford to think like that. If we can't find a way to heal and move on from this without demonizing an entire house—"

Ron raised his voice just a little too much. "It's not like Malfoy and all them just pinned some insulting badges on and ran around the school with them. They worked alongside You-Know-Who. Parkinson would've tied you up with a pretty bow and given you over—"

"She was scared. Everyone was. And it's done now, so there's no use dwelling on it. Besides, whoever did this to her is just as bad as any Death Eater."

Ron looked away, unwilling to meet his eyes. Hermione gazed at the table somberly. Only Ginny met his eyes, her brown eyes blazing.

Ginny definitely understood, Harry thought. She was fierce in everything—in her loyalty, in her defense of her friends, and now in her compassion.

"I think it's a brilliant idea to go," Hermione murmured. "Dumbledore would be proud."

Harry lifted a hand to his unruly hair. "Yeah… about that…." He cleared his throat. "It was actually Snape who suggested it."

All three of them stared at him now, dumbstruck.

"Snape?" Hermione asked faintly, as if she'd finally managed to dislodge the word from her throat. "He's making you—"

"He _requested_ I go," Harry corrected her. "His words, not mine. Thought it might help discourage more incidents."

Another silence stretched between them.

Surprisingly, it was Ron who broke the silence. "Makes sense," he agreed. "Should we, uh, make a card or something?"

A very faint blush colored Harry's cheeks. "Already have one." He dug around in his bag for a moment, rustling the contents before he finally managing to draw out the card he'd enchanted the previous night. It was just a simple little charm that caused the gold letters spelling GET WELL, PANSY to drift lazily over the front of the card like leaves on the surface of a still pond.

Ron grinned a little at the sight of the blatant Gryffindor colors. "Bit too subtle, don't you think?"

"Shut up," Ginny muttered as she took up her quill and inked it.

Ron turned his smirk on her. "Did you help? It doesn't _sing_ , does it?"

"You want to join Pansy in the hospital wing?" Ginny threatened, brandishing her quill at Ron.

"You wouldn't dare."

"I could write a letter to George," Ginny mused as she signed her name with a flourish before passing it to Hermione. "He was telling me that he's working on a few prototypes. He was looking for a test subject…."

That actually managed to shut Ron up.

"I think I have a spare box from Honeydukes," Hermione suggested helpfully as she added her own signature to the inside.

"Er… already got that covered, too." Harry rummaged in his bag again and pulled out the spare box of chocolate frogs he'd pulled from under his bed.

Once they'd all signed, they packed up their things and together made their way toward the hospital wing. All of them knew well enough to linger at the entryway to the Infirmary until Madame Pomfrey gave them the all-clear.

The witch had been ministering to a small Hufflepuff boy with a swollen eye a few beds down. She spied the four of them rather quickly, though, and bustled over to their side, her stern face pinched with suspicion.

"Don't tell me there's another case of—"

"Actually," Harry interrupted her, "we're here to see Pansy Parkinson. Is she up for visitors?"

The witch barely managed to hide the surprise in her expression. "Yes… she is. Mr. Malfoy is currently at her side, along with Miss Greengrass."

The woman stated it neutrally, but after seven years of bitter rivalry, it was clear to Harry that she meant it as a warning.

"That's nice. We weren't planning on staying long. Just wanted to check in on her."

Madame Pomfrey's brow knitted together a little, but she did not question him further. "Miss Parkinson is just down there, fifth bed from the last on the right."

"Thanks," Harry murmured, and together the four of them made their way over to their classmate's side.

Draco was sitting hunched in a chair at her bedside, next to a younger girl who looked remarkably like Daphne Greengrass. Her sister, Astoria. Both Slytherins looked up at the group, startled.

Harry couldn't help but note that Draco had deep rings beneath his eyes. He wondered how long the blond boy had been sitting there.

"Potter," he mumbled, his gaze drifting back to Pansy. There was no malice in the word at all. It was a simple acknowledgment, a greeting.

"Malfoy," Harry replied evenly. "How's she doing?"

Pansy lay on her back, tucked beneath the blankets, her long dark hair splayed around her against the crisp hospital linens. The deep gash that had once split her face was now just a faint pink line, though it was definitely highly visible, and almost as wide as a piece of cable. She looked peaceful enough, though, as she dozed there.

Malfoy had to swallow before he could answer. "Pomfrey said she lost a lot of blood. She's had half a dozen blood-replenishing potions by now…."

Harry cleared his throat a bit awkwardly. None of the Gryffindors had moved to take a seat, and so they hung awkwardly a in a small cluster a foot or so from Pansy's bed. Harry offered out the card and box of chocolates to Malfoy, whose brow arched in surprise.

"It's from all of us."

Malfoy took the box gingerly, as if he thought it might explode, and set it at next to the small pile of gifts and cards that had accumulated at Pansy's bedside.

"Will they be able to erase the scarring?" Hermione asked, breaking the awkward silence hanging between them.

Astoria was the one who answered. "Professor Snape said that it will take several applications of essence of dittany, but eventually it should be good as new."

Harry chose to look at his shoes as he recalled the last time Snape had been forced to bandage up a student and apply dittany. Malfoy himself, after Harry had sliced him open with Snape's own curse two years prior…. He still felt sick at that memory.

"Good," Hermione murmured. "Lucky Professor Snape was so close…."

"Very," Draco agreed.

The six of them lapsed back into a tense silence again, their gazes resting mainly on the stone floor of the infirmary.

"Has Pansy been out this whole time?" Ginny asked at last. "Was she able to say who did it?"

Draco and Astoria both shook their heads slightly.

"She was up a bit last night," Draco said. "Long enough to have a bit of dinner and answer Snape's questions. Said she didn't see who it was, and that she couldn't remember what the voice casting the charm sounded like."

"Do you think she knows, though?" Ginny pressed. "Maybe she's afraid to say anything…."

Draco's expression tightened. "No idea," he muttered, his voice frail and husky.

"Well, hopefully they figure out something soon," Ginny said, "or someone comes forward. It's sick to think that someone would do this…." She gestured to Pansy.

"Yeah," Draco mumbled, no conviction in his voice.

Silence again.

Finally, Ron said, "So, uh, we'd best get going. We've all got potions coming up, don't want to be late…."

Draco and Astoria both murmured faint farewells, their eyes fixated on Pansy.

Harry lingered while the other three turned to stroll out, studying Pansy for just a second longer. The girl looked comfortable, he thought. He felt his stomach tighten as he pondered the possibility that her attacker might come back and try to finish the girl off. He hoped that Snape or McGonagall or someone had set up some wards to keep her safe, just in case.

"Potter."

Draco's voice unexpectedly cut through Harry's dark contemplations.

"Thanks." The word cracked a little.

Harry lifted his head to meet Draco's haggard gaze for just a second. He dipped his head, just barely, in acknowledgement. Then he strode off to catch up with Ginny and the others.


	5. Chapter 5

Snape sat across from McGonagall, his hands clasped tightly over his lap. Idly, he wondered how long ago it had been since they'd been in this room together, their positions reversed. A year? No, less than that. She'd been in often.

Ah, he thought, those had been such pleasant meetings. Her with her jaw clenched so tightly it was a miracle it didn't shatter from the pressure, her eyes filled with an unspeakable, icy loathing, as she'd made mild suggestions concerning the Carrow siblings' teaching and disciplinary methods. Him, sitting stiffly in the headmaster's chair, fighting the urge to agree with her and blast the pair to hell himself, Dumbledore's plan be damned. All the energy it had taken for him to carefully assert that she was to maintain discipline and report any unruly students directly to him, hoping that if he seemed callous enough it would serve to bolster her convictions to defy him.

That, in the end, had been just a part of the delicate balancing act. Provoke her just enough that she remained fierce and vigilant and full of purpose, ready to subvert him and the Carrows at every opportunity.

It was strange to be back here, Dumbledore's portrait dozing in the background, waiting for the stern witch to finish up her latest letter to the temporary minister. There would be a dedication for a monument to lives lost in the latest conflict soon, and she was in the midst of making arrangement for students whose parents or siblings would be honored to make it to the ceremony in London, which, as he understood it, was a logistical nightmare.

At last McGonagall laid her quill down and rubbed her eyes behind her spectacles for a moment, undoubtedly trying to blot out a headache.

"I'm sorry to keep you waiting, Severus," she sighed. "I've been swamped…."

"No need to apologize," Snape reassured her quietly. "I remember the strain of the position well."

McGonagall removed her hands from her eyes and cast him a pained look. "I should dare say you were under a great deal more strain than I," she murmured, her normally clear voice unnaturally husky.

Snape clenched his hands more tightly, fighting the small flood of emotion that rose so easily in him. Now was not the time to mire himself in those unpleasant memories, he chided himself.

"Has Shacklebolt set a date yet?" Snape asked, consciously choosing to change the subject.

McGonagall seemed to regain herself a little. "Sometime before the holidays, he says. But I'm certain you'll receive an owl with further details…."

Snape snorted quietly to himself, softly enough that McGonagall didn't notice. He was certain that he would not be going, and he'd told Kingsley as much the first time the man had mentioned it. An invitation would be a waste of parchment.

"Of course." Snape flexed his thin fingers against his lap, smoothing the dark fabric of his robe. "Have you made any progress on identifying Miss Parkinson's attacker?"

"No. But I've instructed the Heads of House to hold meetings specifically to discuss the incident, and I've half a mind to call the school together to address the matter myself. It is entirely unacceptable… she could have been killed…." McGonagall stood up. Her severe agitation was apparent in every line of her face. She paced around the desk, still muttering to herself. "Attacking a fellow student. I will find the culprit, Severus, that I promise, and when I do, he or she will be expelled and out of the school in the next hour, even if I have to escort them out myself—"

"Minerva," Snape cut her off, endeavoring to keep his tone utterly placid. The woman was close to a breaking point. He half expected steam to start pouring out of her ears. "I agree the culprit should be thoroughly punished, but expulsion may not necessarily be the appropriate consequence."

"You're joking!" McGonagall cried, turning to face him with her needling gaze. "Of all the… of anyone, I thought that _you_ would be the one calling loudest for the student's head! Especially since…." McGonagall trailed off, seeming to reconsider her last statement.

"Since it was a Slytherin student who was attacked?" Snape finished for her. "That is precisely my point, Minerva. The political climate is very delicate right now, and—"

"All the more reason to send a strong message! I will not tolerate this _barbarism_ , not from any student—"

"Many of the children at Hogwarts have lost relatives and friends," Snape cut her off, keeping his low and even. "And we cannot be ignorant of the fact that many of the students in Slytherin house were either directly or indirectly involved in those deaths, or have family members who were involved. I am not condoning any actions against Slytherin students, especially not an attack like this. However, we have to bear in mind that this is not an ordinary year by any stretch of the imagination."

Not that there was ever an "ordinary" year at Hogwarts anymore.

Minerva looked as if she was about to start off on another rant. She opened her mouth, a finger raised, but closed it abruptly, and instead heaved a massive sigh.

"Many are still grieving, reeling from massive losses. And they see their classmates—particularly Slytherin classmates—as guilty parties who have escaped punishment. Allowances must be made."

McGonagall did not speak. She seemed to be considering his words, weighing them against her deep convictions about the unequivocal nature of justice.

"We must set an example," Snape continued, speaking a little more forcefully, "of transgression and reparation. It is the only way to keep from deepening this rift, to show students that there is a way forward from past wrongs. If not, the scars sustained over these last years will be carried down for generations."

McGonagall still did not speak. She stood rather stiffly, her lips pressed into an impossibly thin line, as she turned the words over in her head. At last she seemed to reach a conclusion. Her body relaxed slightly, and her lips loosened enough that the color returned to them.

"I never thought I would see the day," McGonagall muttered, returning to her seat. "Severus Snape, arguing for _leniency_ , and not even for a Slytherin. "

Snape shook his head, fighting back a smirk. This was, after all, a very grave matter. "I never said _leniency_. I suggested that expulsion be taken off the table. I can certainly think of punishments worse than expulsion." Snape thought a minute, then added under his breath, "Except, perhaps, for Granger…."

McGonagall must have heard, or guessed at his comment, because her lips quirked up in a small smile. "I will take it into consideration. But the first step is to find out _who_ is actually behind this…. Perhaps once Miss Parkinson has recovered, she will be able to tell us a bit more."

"Her ability to tell us is not the problem," Snape muttered. "Rather, her willingness."

"You'll speak to her again?"

"Oh, I plan on it," Snape said darkly. "We'll have an answer out of her, one way or another."

McGonagall made a disapproving sound at the back of her throat. "Very well, but remember that Miss Parkinson is the victim, not the perpetrator—"

Snape lifted a brow at the headmistress. "Of course. I simply meant that I intend to exercise all of my persuasive powers to convince Miss Parkinson to cooperate fully."

"Certainly." McGonagall did not sound convinced. She drew herself back up to her desk and smoothed a nervous hand over the front of her robes.

Snape sensed the subject change before she even opened her mouth.

"I actually did not call you up here to discuss Miss Parkinson, Severus," McGonagall began, a note of hesitation in her voice. "I wanted to speak of something else. I have not wanted to overburden you with responsibilities, especially since you were not so keen on returning in the first place—which, I assure you, I fully understand…."

Snape's mouth tightened at those words. He doubted that she did. But he chose not to voice that opinion.

"However," McGonagall continued, "I find myself relying quite heavily on you already…. Filius and Pomona have been filling in as deputy headmaster and headmistress, as I'm sure you know, but neither really has the… the aptitude for the job. And while I value their advice and aid, I personally feel…."

Snape could see where this was going, even if McGonagall had chosen a ridiculously circuitous route to get there.

"Severus, would it be too much to ask you to take on the role of deputy headmaster?"

Snape did not respond right away. This had not even been a possibility on his radar—though, in retrospect, he was a fool for not thinking about it. He and Minerva had spoken frequently ever since he'd arrived back at Hogwarts, and only rarely about anything but the school itself and the safety of students. He'd thought nothing of it, especially given the fact that his personal relationships with most of the staff, Minerva included, were still mending.

Did he have the capacity, he wondered, to perform that duty? And was it wise to take it on?

He allowed his gaze to return to Minerva so that he could try to read her motives. Certainly she'd heard the rumors. If her students doubted that he would be around long, she was doubtless up to speed as well. The woman rarely missed a beat. So perhaps she was offering him this position not because she felt he was the best one to fill it, but because she thought it would be a sure way to keep him around.

Perhaps Dumbledore's meddling had rubbed off on her as well.

Snape's gaze drifted to the portrait, where the man himself still dozed peacefully—or, rather, pretended to doze. Snape could not be certain. Perhaps this was not a plot hatched by McGonagall alone….

"If you need time to consider," McGonagall added after a few silent moments, "by all means…."

Snape swallowed. "I'll give you my answer by the end of the week."

McGonagall nodded once stiffly. "The other request I had… I'm afraid I have to be more insistent. I know I'm asking a great deal already, but in light of recent events—namely, the attack on Miss Parkinson—I was wondering if you would be willing to resume your duties as head of Slytherin house."

This Snape had not expected in the least. It took him several seconds to shake himself out of his state of shock so he could answer. "I fail to see what my being head of house has to do with the attack on Miss Parkinson—"

"Oh, I think you know very well, Severus." McGonagall's eyes flashed reprovingly from behind her spectacles. "Horace is able to perform duties adequately under normal circumstances, but as you've said, these are _not_ normal circumstances. And you are in a unique position to understand many of the students of Slytherin, and to guide them during this period of upset. Besides, you've counselled them for most of their careers at Hogwarts. You know them, and they know you. They will trust you more than any other, Horace included."

Snape drummed his fingers against his kneecap, trying to force himself to think. It was not as if he actually _missed_ the added headaches, but if McGonagall thought it would be worthwhile….

And here he was, he thought bitterly to himself, pretending he had a choice in the matter. He knew what McGonagall's "insistence" would amount to. If she wanted him to take the position, she would not drop the matter, not if it meant she had to start a petition in his own house or the like.

Not that his students were particularly fond of him. He'd never been warm, exactly, to any of them. There had been more days than not where he'd wished that he had never taken up a post that required him to deal with so many jabbering, obnoxious adolescents.

"I know we've had our differences, but Albus always insisted that you were an exemplary—"

"I do not think he used the word 'exemplary'," Snape cut in sharply, irritated. Minerva had never been one to puff or embellish, and he did not understand why she thought a touch of syrupy flattery would do the trick now. He pushed himself up from his chair and strode over to the astrolabe that stood against the right wall.

He had been an asset as a spy, nothing more. Perhaps a bodyguard to the Potter boy, though that was an impossible task, given the boy's insistence on rushing headlong into danger at every turn.

Snape was not a good teacher; he was not a mentor. He was impatient, exacting, unwilling to curb his sharp tongue to spare his students' feelings. And how many times had he abused his position as a professor? He'd had nothing but contempt for his students, even his Slytherins. His post as the potions master had been one of convenience, allowing him proximity to Dumbledore and, later, positioning him to fulfill his promise to Lily.

And that was saying nothing of the way he'd hounded Potter over the years.

So it was absurd now that Minerva McGonagall, who had no use of him as a spy and likely saw no reason for him to keep an eye on Potter, would be insisting that he take on any more duties than the Dark Arts post. Which he'd gotten, he reminded himself, because of the whirlwind of interest generated by a string of sensational articles on Dumbledore's mysterious "right hand man".

Snape smoothed a hand over the surface of the astrolabe, trying to calm his thoughts.

He'd said it himself, he thought. He was one of the few who understood what it meant to end up on the wrong side of a war. He alone was capable of empathizing with the children of former Death Eaters. And maybe that was a good enough reason to return to his position, if temporarily.

And perhaps he would have to stress the "temporary" nature of it.

"I am willing to serve as head of house for this academic year," he said at last, turning back to McGonagall. "I am unwilling to commit to anything beyond that."

McGonagall's eyes were suddenly soft, almost… wounded. It was a strange look to see in her.

"Of course." Her words were soft, gentle, full of understanding. "I shall make the necessary arrangements. You'll take up your old quarters adjacent to the dormitories?"

Snape gave a slight affirmative nod. Her departure from her usual brisk, business-like tone was making him extremely uncomfortable, and he was on the verge of making up some excuse to cut the meeting short.

"Severus, if… if you wish to talk…."

Snape winced. This again? He'd already made a blubbering fool of himself in front of her once. He had no interest in repeating the experience.

It had been good, a small part of him argued. Cathartic. Was it so unbearable for her to see him broken down as he'd been? Better her than anyone else.

"I appreciate the offer," he mumbled woodenly. "I'm afraid I have notes to prepare for my class this evening. If there was nothing else…."

"No," McGonagall replied, her voice regaining some semblance of professionalism. "No, that was all. But the door is always open."

Severus made a small bow, though what possessed him to do that he had no idea. He was nearly to the door when a small, familiar "ahem" stopped him.

Of course. Of course the man had heard everything and now wanted to offer _his_ two cents.

He was a painting, Snape reminded himself. There was nothing he could do to _make_ Snape stay. Snape could simply keep walking, pretend that he hadn't heard the man. After all, how many years had he spent at the man's beck and call? Did he not deserve to be free now that the decrepit bastard was dead and buried?

Curling his hands into balls, Snape forced himself to take a deep, audible breath. He exhaled.

And he turned.

"Severus, I was wondering… might you be free tonight to listen to the ramblings of an old man?"

He should have said no, that he had better things to do than make the trek up to this office just so he could sit and talk to a bloody painting. He should have ignored the words and moved on with his life.

But he didn't. He never quite could.

"Midnight?" Snape demanded through gritted teeth, trying to ignore the pitying look McGonagall was giving him.

XXXXX

Harry rubbed his eyes, which had begun to burn. He was starting to suspect that Snape had purposely given him an indecipherable text so that he could not possibly approach him with a helpful insight. He'd been tackling the same passage for the last hour now, and if anything, he felt like he somehow understood it less now than when he'd begun.

 _Considering Lexicali's work on language-origin theory of counter-curse creation, certain etymological rules must be observed when correlating the incantation of the curse with an incantation intended to undo—or, to extend the lock-key metaphor, unlock—the effects of said curse. If the original incantation is multilingual in origin, all languages involved must be parsed and adequately explored so that attempts at creation of a counter-curse correspond with the original grammatical components used in the curse._

He might as well have been reading a text in Hungarian.

He sighed and pushed the book aside, wondering yet again if he should just go to Snape and ask the professor if he could help explain.

Harry wrinkled his nose at the thought. Snape had been less condescending and acerbic than usual, but Harry had little doubt that the man's sneering and abusive comments would return in a heartbeat if he went to him asking for explanations. And as determined as Harry was to repair his relationship with Snape, he had no interest in sitting through even a few minutes of the man's taunting.

Maybe Hermione would have a spare moment this weekend, he thought.

He sighed and leaned back in his chair. Ron hadn't wanted to go to the library with him, insisting that he had better ways to spend his evening (namely, wiping the floor with a couple of fifth-years in wizard's chess). Hermione was with McGonagall again, doing who knew what. Neville was working on an independent project with Professor Sprout, as he did most evenings now. And Luna had invited him down to Hagrid's, which he'd graciously declined.

He had enough essays, he figured, that he should start on. Especially Snape's. He wasn't so sure that the professor wouldn't grade him especially harshly—more so than usual—just to give him a failing grade as an excuse to call off their arrangement.

Harry slid the _Evolution of Dark Arts Theory_ out of his way and drew his official Dark Arts textbook toward him. _Advanced Defensive Theory_. From what little he'd read of it, the book was no less dense than the Ramkin text. He flipped to the section on the theoretical distinction between benign and Dark magical objects.

 _The world has long debated over the nature of Light and Dark, and in this century we are no closer to drawing an absolute distinction between objects created to harm and help and their classification. The Self-Tightening Noose, for example (outlawed since the 16_ _th_ _century in all respectable magical communities) would be classified inarguably by most as a Dark object. Yet when one makes the observation that, were it to be tightened around the neck of a murderer, we find ourselves facing the conundrum that instruments intend to kill unscrupulously can also serve the purpose of meting out justice, of ending Dark Wizards who would do more harm. And thus, the crux of this problem is not one of classification, but essentially philosophical…._

But the Defense Against the Dark Arts wasn't a bloody philosophy class, Harry thought angrily. What good was it going to do him to think about the philosophy behind Dark artifacts? It wasn't going to help him identify them, or disable them, or anything useful.

Harry allowed himself a small smirk. He could write an essay on that, he thought. How stupid and pointless it was to sit and debate that kind of thing when they could be learning something useful. Snape would give him a zero for certain, and likely a detention for good measure.

At this rate, a detention was the only way that Snape would voluntarily spend time with Harry.

"…stupid Slytherin girl…"

Harry heard the voices from behind the bookshelf. And he could guess well enough what they were discussing. Very carefully, doing his best to make no noise, he reached into his bag and slipped out his Invisibility Cloak. He'd made a habit of keeping it with him at all times, just in case of instances like this. In one fluid motion he'd unfolded it and slipped it over his body.

Harry murmured a silencing charm for his feet and, moving swiftly, trailed after the voices.

A pair of Ravenclaws, a girl and a boy, he saw. They looked to be third or fourth years. They were leaning against the shelf, the girl clutching a thick volume to her chest, her face pinched in a scowl.

"Probably one of theirs," the girl muttered softly. "That's what Sarah was saying. Said that she probably cursed herself or had one of her friends do it just to get the other houses in trouble."

The boy snorted. "Wouldn't surprise me. And it worked, didn't it? Even Potter feels bad."

"Well, either way, she got what was coming to her," the girl hissed, crushing her book harder to her breast. "I mean, if I ran into her in a dark corridor…."

"Lacey!" the boy snapped. "You remember what Professor Flitwick said. Automatic expulsion! Even if your curse doesn't hit, automatic—"

"Which is totally unfair," the girl huffed. She glared at the bookshelf, running her hand along the titles. "McGonagall's off her nut. Slytherins should be fair game, I say. Give them a taste of their own medicine. It's not as if _we_ got any leniency last year."

"Well, that's not going to happen," the boy grumbled. "Oh, here it is, right? _Transfiguration Simplified_."

Harry had heard enough. Still just as carefully, he slipped out of the row and back to his table. Making sure that no one was around to see him suddenly reemerge, he slipped the cloak off and folded it tightly before storing it back in his bag.

And then he just sat there, his chest rising and falling, his head throbbing. He stared at the pattern of the woodgrain, trying to think, trying to work out a way to fix this.

Everything was supposed to be fine now. Voldemort was gone. The worst of the Death Eaters were in Azkaban. Hogwarts had been rebuilt, funerals had been planned, Kingsley had assumed temporary control of the ministry…. Everyone was supposed to be safe now.

So why did he have the awful feeling that they were on the precipice of some fresh awful conflict?


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: Thanks again to everyone who has followed and reviewed. You guys make my day! If you can't get enough Snape, check out some of my other pieces. Happy reading!**

Snape tightened his grip painfully around his wand, clenching it so tightly that all the blood drained from the knuckles. That he could see, even by the pale wandlight that cast out from the tip of his wand.

 _More_ giggling. And he swore that those infernal voices were familiar. He would eat the stack of ungraded assignments in his office if it was not the same pair he'd told off last time.

Snape was almost certain he'd located the source of the giggling this time. He never had understood why this particular corridor had so many decorative curtains…. It was almost as if the castle had been designed with disrespectful, rule-breaking little cretins in mind.

Snape stole up to the curtain, his footsteps as soundless as a cat's, and in one fluid, violent motion jerked the heavy velvet back. He brandished his wand before him.

His lip curled into a particularly nasty sneer. He was certain he was baring his teeth at this point, which was a tendency he normally schooled himself not to indulge, but his irritation was at its peak tonight, and the troublemakers before him would not be spared.

"Fawley," he enunciated, layering as much disdain as he could muster into each syllable, "and Gossamer."

Whatever the two had been giggling about before, they certainly were not amused now.

"Sir," Fawley began, his lips trembling, "I—"

"Silence," Snape bit out, his eyes flashing dangerously. "Wandering the corridors at night _again_? Ah, but I should have known. After all, the consequences of your last escapade were not sufficient, were they? Here, my colleagues go on and on about _clemency_ and _letting things slide_ , and so I thought, ah, perhaps I am a touch harsh. Perhaps I have been going about this all _wrong_."

"Sir, we were—"

"Ten points from Ravenclaw, Gossamer, for not knowing what the word _silence_ means. I suggest you make use of a dictionary when you return to your common room, lest you disgrace your house any further."

Snape's steely glare flickered between the two students for a moment longer as he continued to breathe harshly through his nose. Satisfied that neither of them were about to venture another foolish remark, he continued.

"Because _leniency_ does not encourage respect for the rules, as I have known all along, I fear I shall have to correct the grave error I made last time. Fifty points from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, and both of you will be serving detentions with me for the rest of the week." Snape took a moment to brush a stray stand of hair back from his face. He allowed his wand arm to lower, though only marginally. "In addition," he continued coldly, "I will be informing both of your heads of house of this purposeful flouting of the rules, and I will be strongly recommending additional consequences in order to beat this lesson into your thick skulls."

He gave the two another moment for his words to settle in. Both looked utterly dejected now, their heads hung, their shoulders slumped. Clearly his lecture had had the intended effect.

"You will both report to my office tomorrow evening, seven o'clock sharp. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," they chimed in chorus.

Snape continued to glower at them before finally snapping, "Come."

Fawley's eyes flashed up, confused. "Sir, where—"

"I will be escorting you back to your dormitories," he growled, teeth clenched again, "since it would be utterly foolish of me to simply assume that you would find your own way back."

Snape had to resist the temptation to snare the both of them by their ears and drag them along like the miscreants they were. But, he thought, Filius and Pomona would have words with him about laying hands on their students. And a tense conversation with both of them would do nothing to improve his mood, he was certain.

Besides, this way the old fool could wait on him and wonder for a bit if Snape was coming after all. It would serve him right.

As if Dumbledore's portrait was anything more than a weak imitation, Snape thought to himself, feeling the pain of guilt and sorrow stabbing into him hard, twin needles that pierced his core. Dumbledore, the real Dumbledore, was gone, sealed in his tomb.

"Sir, I just wanted to say that seven is not a good time for me."

Gossamer's timid voice drew Snape out of his morose contemplations, and immediately hurtled him back into his state of extreme irritation.

"And why is that, Miss Gossamer?" he challenged, casting a terrible glare at her.

"Sir, my study group—"

"Will surely understand that detention for _wandering the corridors at night_ will cause you to miss your normal session."

"Sir, if you would just consider postponing… I've an Arithmancy test the day after tomorrow, and—"

"Your class schedule is not my concern, Miss Gossamer. If your academic performance is so _very_ important, perhaps you should endeavor to follow the rules and avoid detentions that might interfere with your studying. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir." Defeat rang out in every syllable of the girl's words.

"I suggest you drop the matter now," Snape suggested icily, "lest you lose any more points tonight. Sixty seems to be quite enough."

Snape did not turn to look at the girl, but he swore that he could feel the blush radiating from her cheeks.

Twenty or so minutes later, Snape had dropped the pair off at their respective common rooms and was well on his way to the headmistress' office. He decided he would write down their names tonight and make a point of speaking to Pomona and Filius in the morning. He had a feeling that penning notes after his chat with Albus would not be the best idea, given his already foul mood.

All too soon, Snape found himself making his way back up the same familiar moving staircase and pressing into the office. He lit a fire in the hearth, just as he had last time, and turned his attention to the headmaster's portrait.

"Severus."

"Albus." Snape barely parted his lips. And he did not venture to say any more.

The former headmaster smiled at him gently, his hands folded loosely in his lap. "Thank you for coming."

Snape had the good sense to cast several silencing and privacy charms then. He didn't want to cause Minerva to come stumbling back into the office, not for all the world. Once they'd been set, Snape dropped back into the chair he'd occupied during their last chat. "My apologies for my tardiness."

Dumbledore's smile turned into a knowing smirk. "Ah, I'm certain there was good cause. You were always rather vigilant when it came to rulebreakers."

"Just as some of my colleagues have been rather negligent," Snape replied tartly.

"Balance and counterbalance. I believe the students benefit from a wide array of approaches."

Snape side and crossed his leg over his lap. Sometimes he wondered if the man was capable of being blunt. "I assume you did not want to discuss my disciplinary practices."

A twinkle of mirth in his eyes, Dumbledore replied, "It was not my intention, no."

Snape fought back the impatient growl that rose to his lips. "And I don't suppose you'd like to tell me what you _did_ wish to discuss?" he inquired, working to keep his tone mild.

"You, Severus." All trace of humor vanished from Dumbledore's eyes.

Snape laced his fingers tightly over his knee. "Me," he repeated, the word radiating disbelief. "I believe there are more important topics that we could discuss, namely recent attacks on students, which Minerva has no doubt mentioned. And as I am expected to take up her old post—as was your intention, I'm sure—I suspect you might have some insights for me as well as to how best to handle the situation—"

"My boy," Dumbledore chided gently, in that tone that made Snape feel as if he were eleven years old again, " _you_ are also of paramount importance. I do not believe for an instant that you and Minerva cannot manage the challenges that have arisen this year. However—"

"I cannot possibly imagine what it is about _me_ that would merit further discussion," Snape retorted, pressing his hands together even more tightly. "I believe that our little therapy session last time exposed the root of my _issues_. I believe I am beyond redemption and am thus allowing my past to continue to torture me. You believe that Lily would have forgiven me, thus releasing me from that guilt and need for redemption. I disagree, considering the degree of sheer hostility I've exhibited toward her son over the years. Thus, we find ourselves at an impasse. Thus, there is nothing further to discuss."

Snape made a move to rise, but yet again, Dumbledore's voice stopped him.

"I know your love for Lily is strong, but I cannot believe that you have put yourself through so many trials merely for the sake of her memory—"

"Then you understand nothing," Snape interrupted angrily, pushing himself up. "I thought for certain that after I cast my Patronus—"

"I do not mean to imply that your devotion to Lily is anything less than extraordinary," Dumbledore insisted in a conciliatory tone. "What I mean to suggest is that your singular love for her is more, too, that it is symbolic of so much."

Snape folded his arms across his chest, knowing only too well how defensive the gesture made him appear. But in front of a mere portrait, he thought bitterly, he would allow himself this amateur mistake now because he was so tired, and still so very weary of constantly hiding himself behind an iron curtain. It wasn't as if Dumbledore wouldn't see right through him anyway.

"I have never requested an analysis of my psyche," Snape growled, "and since, as you well know, I do not appreciate such inane speculation—"

But Dumbledore cut him off, continuing as if Snape hadn't even spoken. "Losing her was the loss of your only true friend, the one person who saw you—every part of you—and still cared for you. Her death marked any the loss of chance at redemption in her eyes, and if you could not be redeemed, you could not be loved."

"So I am unlovable," Snape stated bluntly. "I've said as much myself. I know what I am, Albus; I am not laboring under the delusion that I am amiable by any stretch of the imagination. I care nothing for the way I am perceived, and if that has not become painfully apparent over all these years, I have placed far too much faith in your perceptive prowess. I am unpleasant, and I am well aware of it."

Snape felt an uncharacteristic flush rising to his cheeks, and quickly turned so that Dumbledore could not see the change in color. Here he was, blathering on, showering himself in self-pity, calling himself unlovable. Pathetic.

He cleared his throat and added quickly, "And that is perfectly fine. I need no one's approval. So, if there was nothing else…."

"I have failed you, Severus, just as I have failed Harry."

The admission was like a thunderclap. Snape whirled around, arms dropping immediately to his sides. There were so many thoughts clamoring in his mind that he could scarcely get any words past his lips.

He knew that this was a mere portrait—the imprint of a departed soul, much like a ghost—yet in that instant, after such a profound revelation, he could not help but feel as if he was speaking to the man himself.

"Albus, no," he murmured, his tone instantly softer. "You have poured your life into stopping this travesty. You guided the boy from the onset. We may not always have seen eye to eye, but you did everything you thought was necessary, and at great personal cost—"

Dumbledore smiled at him sadly. "Once again, Severus, I fear you misunderstand. What _we_ have accomplished—please, do not forget your role in this—what we have done to put a stop to Voldemort's designs, that was a great success."

"Careless mistakes aside," Snape said with a cursory glance at Dumbledore's unblemished hand, "our ends have been achieved. There is no room for regret."

"I beg to differ. You were at my side for sixteen years, the same length of time that young Harry was trusted to my care. You worked tirelessly not only to keep him safe but to leverage your past to our advantage, just as Harry himself spent nearly his entire Hogwarts career foiling Voldemort's many schemes. I cared for you both because of the roles you needed to play. Ah, and Severus, I fear my error with you was much worse than with Harry, who was in less dire need of support."

"There was no _dire need of support_ ," Snape hissed. "You've been planting ideas in that boy's head. He thinks that he now has to comfort _me_ , you understand. I have managed well enough for those sixteen years, and especially during the last three when I was again called to lead a strenuous double-life, when I was teaching and spying and brewing for the Order and trying to teach the famous, reckless Harry Potter to keep the Dark Lord from toying with his mind. I was never pleasant under the strain, certainly, but I think that my less-than-palatable personality has been offset by the services I rendered—"

"I do not mean to imply that you could not cope with the strain, because you did so admirably, nor am I faulting you for not wasting time creating a pleasant front when amongst allies. I simply mean to say that I asked a great deal from you without once making a sincere effort to relieve that burden."

Snape began shaking his head at the man before he even finished speaking. "Ridiculous. As if you didn't have enough on your mind…. I am fine, regardless of whatever rumors you've decided to give credence to. As I said, there is no room for regret. We have managed well, despite our losses. Potter, in the end, was prepared for the mad task you set before him…."

"Do I detect admiration?" Dumbledore queried, just a hint of amusement lightening his words.

"Respect," Snape clarified, his tone clipped. "My _point_ is that I, too, am managing. Yes, I find myself in a strange position now, and yes, the adjustments have been somewhat trying. But I am by no means an invalid in need of looking after, do I make myself clear?"

"Severus…."

"Last time, yes, perhaps expression of grief was necessary. Even I can recognize that there must be some outlet for an excess of emotion. But that has been sorted now, meaning that I've no further need of these counselling sessions, certainly not at this time of night."

"I mean to say that you have been expected to simply _manage_ for too many years. At first, I am rather ashamed to admit, because I could not rouse enough compassion for you—"

"Albus," Snape cut him off sternly, using his tone to mask his own embarrassment. "I was a scarcely-reformed Death Eater who had just handed the Dark Lord a reason to slaughter Lily's son. I scarcely had a right to believe you would even shield me from Azkaban, so do not fault yourself—"

"We have all been young and reckless," Dumbledore murmured, a distant look overcoming his features. "I should know, better than most, that it is in our youth that we are in most need of compassion and understanding. And I was hardly young when you came to me. I should have known better, if not then, at least once you'd taken up your post here. Even after years, I fear I was, at best, lukewarm…."

"My mistakes were my own."

Dumbledore looked a little forlorn then, his aged lips fragile in the midst of his long white beard. "You have paid for those mistakes a thousand times over. As I have paid for my own mistakes. And knowing the price of my own shortcomings, and the burden I bore, I should have known better than to treat you with contempt—"

"Contempt," Snape sneered, though not cruelly. "You have never treated me with contempt. Except, perhaps, that night… but under the circumstances…." Snape shook his head to yet again force his thoughts from drifting down that unpleasant path.

"Distance, then," Dumbledore murmured. "Even once Harry began his school years and our collaboration became more involved, I was still never very forthcoming—"

"It was not your duty to coddle me. And as I've already stated, you had more than enough concerns at the time."

"You deserved better. You deserved to feel welcome here during your school years, and later you deserved greater empathy for what you endured on the Order's behalf."

Snape fought to maintain control. He would not break down again. Twice was enough, especially since one of them had been in front of Potter. "I appreciate the sentiment, but there was nothing to be done."

"I did not even ask what Voldemort put you through when you returned to his side."

Snape closed his eyes. "You saw my memories. We observed them together. You know—"

"Ah, yes, we thoroughly dissected them. We speculated on every last detail of Voldemort's return, on how it was even possible…. But I never asked you, Severus, if you were all right. I never invited you to discuss what he had done to you—"

"Because the matter did not need to be discussed!" Snape interjected angrily. "My _feelings_ about the ordeal contained no tactical information. And need I remind you that you were planning a funeral at the time, and battling the ministry, not to mention the mess with Crouch and Potter. That, and the logistics of continuing to host two foreign schools in the midst of all that chaos… is it a wonder that we did not sit down for a nice heart-to-heart?"

"Feasibility aside, you _deserved_ to speak about it," Dumbledore asserted gently. "You have become so accustomed over the years to bearing such heavy burdens that you cannot see that now you no longer need to carry them alone."

"My burdens are my own, full stop. I do not appreciate your meddling, or the implications that I am incapable of managing my own mental state when I have done so for years. Years! After the Astronomy Tower, not one tear shed, not even so much as a small facial tick. I waited five days before I could so much as falter in that façade. Five days, Albus! I—" But he snapped his mouth shut abruptly.

"As I recall, you never begrudged Harry his many confidants, even when you were so intent on criticizing the boy."

Snape's eyes narrowed to slits at Dumbledore's light tone. "I was not merely criticizing him, but the adults who allowed him to put himself in such terrible situations time and time again. Besides, as I see things, _Harry_ was a child who has endured more than any boy his age ever should—"

Snape closed his mouth again, his cheeks coloring, when he caught the twinkle in Dumbledore's eye and realized his slip-up. "Potter was not accustomed to the responsibility," he summarized curtly, no longer meeting Dumbledore's eyes. "He needed guidance."

"What concerns me, Severus, is that I am not sure whether you feel you do not need help, or whether you think that you are not worthy of it."

 _Not worthy_. He was still harping on about Snape's pain. It was his fault, really, for as much as implying that he was responsible for his own misery. By which, of course, he merely meant that he'd made his choices. He'd taken the Dark Mark. He'd reported the prophecy. Worst of all, he'd cut at his only friend with the sharpest weapon in his disposal, and he'd never truly apologized to her—with actions, not words.

He was not laboring under any twisted delusions of worthlessness, he thought. He was suffering for the consequences of his actions.

And he'd heard enough for one night.

"It's late. I need to return to my quarters. I've a class to teach in the morning."

"Severus—"

"Goodnight, Albus." With a wave of his wand, Snape undid his wards and swept out of the office, his robes rippling behind him.

XXXXX

"…So in the end, it all boils down to whether you endorse a consequentialist approach to the classification of Dark Artifacts, though I don't suppose a detailed account of all possible applicable philosophers would be possible in two feet…."

Harry had been listening to Hermione all day, at regular intervals between their classes and at meals, and he still felt like he was no closer to understanding his essay topic than he'd been before. And that was after he'd read the assigned section in the text.

It didn't help that Hermione had a tendency to overcomplicate matters.

They were sitting in Defense now, five minutes before their class was supposed to start. They were early at Harry's behest, of course. Ron had teased him mercilessly about it at the time, probably because Hermione had told him that he shouldn't complain about it since Harry was just trying to get on the right track with Snape. Besides, she enjoyed getting there early so she could set up all her texts, smooth out her parchment, and set up her self-inking quill.

Neville slid into the row beside them, interrupting Hermione's lecture on the topic. He didn't look happy.

"How's it going?" Harry greeted him.

Neville stole a hasty glance toward the classroom door. "Hiya Harry. Ron, Hermione. You see Snape today?"

Harry could see where this was headed. Ron and Hermione turned to Neville, their faces worried.

"Uh, no, can't say I have. He all right?"

"I ran into him in the hall—almost literally, actually. He looked pretty tired. Like he wasn't in a really good mood."

"Great," Ron muttered. "So much for not losing scads of points in Snape's class. I bet my broom today's going to be just like good old times." Ron dropped his voice down low to do an imitation of Snape's precise diction. " 'Fifty points from Gryffindor, Mr. Weasley, for your insufferably rude sneeze.'"

"Well, he didn't take points at our practicum," Hermione pointed out defensively. "Even though _someone_ couldn't produce a Shield Charm to save his life."

Ron blushed a little at that. "I just can't do it without incanting. There's a big difference."

Hermione cocked a disapproving eyebrow at him. "Can't?"

"Oh, you know what I meant! I can do it if—"

"If your wand's angled just right and the light's not in your eyes and nobody's distracting you," Harry teased.

"Like you were any better! I heard you, you know." He dropped his voice down again. " 'Focus, Mr. Potter. I don't need to read your mind to know that you're utterly distracted.'"

Harry flushed. "He wasn't actually that bad, you know. I got it on the second try."

"Well, I might've got it too if he even gave me a second—"

The sound of the door thudding heavily cut Ron off mid-sentence. Snape stalked in briskly, in his usual fashion, his robes billowing behind him like dark wings. Everyone straightened in their seats immediately as he approached the podium.

He took a moment to deposit his notes, then surveyed the class coolly. Neville had been right, Harry saw immediately. There were the beginnings of dark rings beneath his eyes, and he swore that the professor looked sallower than usual. But the harsh impatience that Harry had expected was nowhere to be seen in the man's face.

"Today," he began, "we will continue our discussion of the identification of Dark Artifacts. I suppose it is too much to hope that, over the course of six years of abysmal Defense instruction, any of you has acquired a decent corpus of scanning and detection spells. So to begin, we will be learning the most common ones that are used as preliminary identifiers, and _if_ you prove proficient, we will move into more advanced spells capable of detecting subtler hexes and curses.

"What is one of the primary spells one might cast to ascertain if an object bears a curse?"

The question hung in the air for a few seconds in the dead silence of the room. There was not even the scuffle of feet or the scratch of a quill to break it up.

Hermione, it seemed, had finally learned the futility of attempting to reply to Snape's questions, since it had only ever put her in a position to be mocked and insulted. That, or she had taken Neville's warning to heart and decided that today was not a good day to rock the boat.

Snape sighed wearily. "Miss Granger?" He did not bother to look at her. Instead, he turned to the expansive blackboard at the back of the classroom and began spelling it to show the three main categories of detection spells.

Hermione seemed a bit wary. "Sir?" she inquired, a bit of nervousness showing through in the syllable.

"Care to venture a guess?" The thin layer of sarcasm left Harry no doubt that Snape knew Hermione's response would be much better than a mere "guess".

"The Ostenderus charm would reveal any simple spells cast on the object, either evil or benign, though it has been notably unreliable for detecting complex Dark spells. Additionally, it rarely is able to parse out individual spells cast if there are multiple charms, hexes, or curses present."

And after what was a surprisingly succinct answer for Hermione, she clammed up, as if she were afraid that another syllable might earn her Snape's ire.

Snape flicked his wand almost lazily at the board, where under the "Primary" category, "Ostenderus" appeared in Snape's looping scrawl. "Five points to Gryffindor."

The words didn't make any sense to Harry at first, who was so stunned that lost the thread of whatever Snape launched into next.

Not so with Ron, who leapt to his feet, his face twisted in a look of outrage. "That's not fair!" he cried. "She didn't even raise her hand, and you bloody well know her answer's right—"

Snape's cool, unperturbed stare swung back to Ron. He raised an eyebrow, still remarkably calm considering Ron's outburst.

Ron had shut up immediately and now stood stupidly, as if dazed.

"He said 'to', Ron," Harry muttered helpfully.

Ron slumped back down.

"Problem, Mr. Weasley?" Snape inquired, still oh-so-cool.

"No, sir," he mumbled. "Sorry, sir."

Snape continued on with his lecture, acting as if nothing had happened. Which was, if nothing else, extremely disturbing, since in years past the man would have used Ron's outburst to take back five times as many points as he'd just awarded. Which Harry had thought to be his plan all along.

But that didn't seem to be the case.

Once he had them pair up to practice casting a few of the simplest detection charms on jinxed jewelry he'd provided ("Nothing that will kill you, though I would not recommend accessorizing with these particular pieces," he'd warned), Harry took the opportunity to discuss with Ron the bizarre incident that had just taken place.

"Maybe he's sleep-deprived," Ron suggested quietly before uttering a quick " _Ostenderos"_ over the mother-of-pearl necklace they'd been provided.

The necklace didn't react.

"You think I cast it wrong?" Ron wondered. "Anyway, maybe he's gone 'round the bend—"

"Sh," Harry hissed, casting a quick glance over at Snape, who was explaining something or other to Hermione and Neville. "You _want_ to tick him off? And anyway, maybe he's just more fair when he doesn't have a cover to maintain."

"Yeah, right, he had a cover to maintain for those first four years—"

"Well, there were Death Eater's kids still at Hogwarts, weren't there? And Voldemort didn't just take him at his word, you know, when he went back—"

"Oh, you're just making excuses because you want to make nice now," Ron accused. "You can't stand not to be liked, can you? You're worse than Hermione—"

"Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley."

Both of them spun around, startled. Snape stood just behind them, arms folded over his chest, glaring.

"Have you identified the jinx or jinxes on your necklace?"

Harry heard Ron swallow thickly. Sometimes, it really wasn't hard to see why Neville was so terrified of the man. There seemed to be some terrible threat in Snape's question simmering just below the surface, an unspoken _answer or else_.

"Not yet, sir," Ron mumbled.

"Then I suggest you cut the chatter and focus on your assignment. Unless you prefer to do your diagnosis the old-fashioned way—by trying it on."

That was enough of an over threat. Both of them replied with a faint "yes, sir".

Snape continued to glower at them for a moment longer before sweeping off to his desk.

"See, he didn't even take points," Harry muttered under his breath before casting a more complex detection charm. This time, the necklace glowed red and a few sparks glanced off its surface. "Mm… not sure what spell that was supposed to be…."

"He didn't take points because you still had a bit of brown on your nose. 'Oh, he's _fair_ now, he acts like a normal professor, he didn't even assign a detention for a bit of chit-chat—'"

Harry elbowed Ron in the ribs. "Just pay attention, would you? _Maledictus revelius_." The necklace glowed a more brilliant red this time, and a phantom image of it rose above like a ghost, crackling with a red, static energy. "Do you know what spell this is?" Harry asked, squinting at the occasional white-hot streaks of light that would slip out, like little lightning-strikes.

"Er… Stupefy?" Ron guessed. "Don't suppose he would go with something easy, would you? Something that we could actually identify?"

Harry sighed and glanced back at the board. There wasn't much help for identifying magic by sight, just spells to force enchantments to be known. "Maybe you should try it on after all," he suggested.

The rest of the class period really wasn't bad. Harry managed to discreetly get Hermione's attention, and she was able to tell them with just a quick glance that the spell manifesting was a Jig Jinx, something that would force the wearer to dance madly until the object was removed. Harry had sniggered at that, finding it funny that Snape, of all people, would put such a ludicrous jinx on a necklace.

That was, until the end of the class period when Snape gathered up the few jinxed pieces they'd been working on and set them to hover at the front of the room.

"Miss Granger, Mr. Longbottom." Snape cast his wand at a tiny charm bracelet, which hovered out to the front of the other floating pieces of jewelry. "What enchantment did you find spelled into this particular piece?"

"A Tickling Charm, sir," she replied, straight-faced.

Ron and Harry were having a hard time fighting back their grins.

Snape nodded once in affirmation. He forced the charm bracelet back into place and forced forward a silver brooch, shaped like a branch. "Miss Dinnett?" he inquired.

The Hufflepuff girl rose from her seat to deliver her answer. "A Howling Jinx, sir."

A snort escaped Ron, though he immediately lifted a hand to cover his mouth.

Snape sent the mother-of-pearl necklace forward last. His brow drawn together in a way that made Harry think that he'd noticed their repressed giggling, he demanded, "And Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, what jinx did Miss Granger identify on your necklace?"

Harry felt a few dots of color on his cheeks at that. So he'd noticed. And he didn't sound very impressed. That sobered Harry a little, but not Ron, who still kept his hand up over his mouth.

"An, um—a Jig Jinx, sir," Harry retorted.

"Jigs and howling and tickling," Snape mused, though his eyes were dark, belying his light tone. "What a festive little combination we have here. Mr. Weasley, you obviously find these jinxes amusing. Tell me, what do you suppose would happen if, say, a young lady donned your necklace and was unable to remove it?"

Ron cleared his throat and straightened up a little. "Uh… guess she'd be in for a night of dancing?"

"And if she never removed it?" Snape pressed, his coal-colored eyes flashing.

"Ever? Well, I guess she'd… dance herself to death?"

Harry suddenly remembered a rather macabre Muggle fairytale where, in the end, the evil queen was forced to dance to death at a wedding because they put hot iron shoes on her feet. The image was pretty gruesome.

"And if someone were unable to remove your bracelet, Mr. Longbottom?"

Neville swallowed thickly, though it didn't seem to be from nervousness this time. "They might suffocate from lack of oxygen or something."

"And your brooch, Miss Dinnett?"

The girl didn't rise this time. "The same. They'd have to keep on howling without catching their breath—because the jinx wouldn't wear off so quickly. They might scream themselves to death."

Snape nodded again, just barely inclining his head. His steady gaze swept over the classroom. "I did not choose these spells haphazardly," he informed them quietly, though his voice carried easily in the classroom. "These are children's spells. Innocent, playful. Yet when misused…." He waved his wand at the jewelry, banishing all three pieces in one fell swoop. "They can be just as deadly or excruciating as an Unforgivable Curse. Something to consider while finalizing your essays this weekend. Class dismissed."

Harry had thought to linger after class for a word with Snape, though now he was less sure of that plan, since he and Ron had obviously used Hermione to get out of the hardest part of the day's work. He'd never really cared about Snape's approval before, since the man had been hell-bound from day one to ridicule Harry regardless of how hard he tried.

But this year had been different. Snape had been stern, as usual, but no more so than McGonagall. He'd taken a no-nonsense approach to his Defense course. But even when he'd caught Ron and Harry chatting, he hadn't docked points. Hell, he'd even given Hermione five for her correct answer!

Well, Harry thought, everything _was_ different this year. So maybe trying to get a few words in with the man wasn't courting disaster.

"I'll meet you up in the Common Room," he told Ron and Hermione.

Ron made a show of rubbing his nose. Harry ignored him.

Snape was just gathering up his notes when Harry approached the desk. His dark gaze flickered up briefly before returning to the parchment.

"Mr. Potter."

"I just wanted to know if Pansy had any idea who attacked her, sir," Harry began, his words more confident than he felt. "She was still out of it when we visited."

Snape's eyes flashed up again, and for a brief instant they glimmered with a softer emotion. But then they were hard and distant once more. "Miss Parkinson has not been very forthcoming on details. I spoke with her yesterday, but she insists she has no clue as to who might have attacked her." Snape tamped down a stack of parchment, straightening the edges, before settling it neatly at the corner of his desk. "She appreciated the card and the well-wishes, though I personally found the card a trifle ostentatious."

Harry sensed no real malice in the words. It was obviously a gibe, which was too strange coming from Snape, who he was certain had no sense of humor whatsoever.

"Ron thought so too," Harry mumbled, because he didn't know what else to say.

Snape made a face, as if to say that he would not be caught dead in the same frame of mind as one Ronald Weasley.

"Um, what about the other Slytherins? Have they said anything?"

"Not yet," Snape muttered. It sounded almost menacing—though Harry supposed that half the things the man said just naturally seemed like threats. "Professor McGonagall has the matter handled. I know that by now you believe you are responsible for resolving every crisis in this school, but as Dumbledore is no longer here to insist that you shoulder the responsibility, perhaps you can leave this to the staff."

The words were cutting, a dressed-up way of saying _mind your own business_. Harry didn't miss that. And the remark about Dumbledore rankled. But Harry bit his tongue, not wanting to spoil this perfectly civil conversation. At least it was becoming more of a commonplace thing between the two of them.

"Certainly, sir." Harry half expected Snape to rebuke him then and there for his "cheek", even though he hadn't meant the comment to be sarcastic in the least.

To his surprise, Snape heaved a deep sigh. "The matter's in hand. Don't let it spoil your only normal year here." And with that Snape straightened his robes. "I'm afraid I have an appointment to keep. Good day."

Harry didn't know if that was an excuse to leave the classroom or not, but Snape certainly did stride out of the place as if he had somewhere to be.

Harry shook his head to himself in disbelief. Snape had been… decent, the remark about him not playing savior aside. At least Snape hadn't called him the Chosen One.

Maybe he was making progress after all.


	7. Chapter 7

XXXXX

Snape was tempted to conjure a bottle of wine by the time Draco entered his private office. It had been a long day, and an even longer night, as he'd continued to make his way through the list of Slytherin students. He'd always insisted on individual meetings as Head of House, mostly under the guise of getting to know his charges better.

He'd originally taken up the practice as an expansion of his efforts to glean information on the Dark Lord. He'd correctly assumed that having a good rapport and a more personal relationship with certain students meant that they were more apt to openly discuss their parents and the unsavory gossip that ex-Death Eaters bandied about their homes.

But he'd found—especially now, resuming his Head of House duties—that there was more to this than the role he'd played. There was some degree of underlying compassion, something gratifying in connecting with his troubled students.

And they were troubled indeed. The whole of Slytherin House seemed deeply unsettled, not only by the recent attack on Pansy Parkinson, but by the entrenched distrust and open loathing of their fellow students. Many had confessed to him that they were sometimes afraid to leave their Common Room. The upper forms were less afraid of the possibilities and more interested in avoiding the scathing remarks and open hostility that they endured from every corner.

And Snape could sympathize with that. He had, after all, contended with the ill effects of suspicion and doubt for years and years. It ate at your resolve, he knew. At least his students could draw strength from solidarity, not that comforting each other was any kind of long-term solution.

He'd purposely saved Draco for last, knowing that his chat with the boy would be far more personal than with the others. Because, in spite of everything, including the boy's intractable arrogance and other unpleasant traits, his friendship with the Malfoys had not been a complete lie. After all, he had taken an Unbreakable Vow to help and protect Draco when he could have easily refused. Lucius was a piece of work, and Narcissa certainly had her faults, but Snape knew that they cared deeply for their son, as any parents did. And he'd practically acted as the boy's godfather from the day he'd set foot in Hogwarts.

Besides, at least Draco and Narcissa had, in the end, found the strength to turn their back on the Dark Lord. And that was enough for Snape.

"Good evening, sir," Draco murmured, more subdued than Snape had ever seen him. Dark circles hung beneath his eyes, and his whole posture slumped, no trace of his former stiff aristocratic bearing.

"Sit, Draco," Snape commanded, gesturing to the leather chair angled before his desk. He'd opted to meet the last half of his students in the office in his private quarters, which was far more inviting than even his new office near the Defense classroom.

Draco settled himself in, his eyes still down. Snape watched as the boy absently fingered a loose thread on his robes—a sign of just how distracted he truly was. His father had schooled him for years on how to comport himself, but now he'd clearly bowed down under the pressures of his situation.

"How has the start of term been?" Snape inquired in a perfectly neutral tone. His sharp black eyes continued to analyze the blond boy, searching for every nervous tick, every clue that might give him some insight into Draco's state of mind.

"Fine, sir," Draco murmured softly.

"You can still call me Severus," Snape informed him smoothly. "We're not in the classroom."

Draco's silver eyes flashed up, disbelieving for a second, before falling back to his hands. "I know you only pretended to care about me so you could get close to my father—"

"I did not _pretend_ anything," Snape hissed, cutting the boy off. "I made an Unbreakable Vow to do all I could for you your sixth year. You think I risked my life for the theatrics of it? To prove my loyalties to your aunt? To earn the trust of your mother, who had already fallen out of favor? I made it for her benefit, Draco, and for yours. I had every intention of keeping you from harm's way."

The boy flushed pink. "Yeah, and I behaved like an ungrateful little prat. I almost got two classmates killed, and in the end it didn't do one bit of good—"

"The past is in the past," Snape told him in his firmest tone. "Act or no, I have known your family since you were born. I have watched you grow. I have been your professor, and I have tried to be a mentor to you. That, I assure you, was sincere." Snape sighed, willing the edge to leave his tone. He pinched the bridge of his nose and continued more softly, "What I am trying to say, Draco, is that I am still here to help you in whatever capacity you may need me. I know better than most what it is like to come out on the wrong side of a war."

Snape watched as Draco's hands clenched tightly.

"You're worried about what happened to Miss Parkinson?" he inquired softly.

"I can defend myself."

"Yes," Snape agreed. "You're extremely capable. But Miss Parkinson was not. And I know that many of your friends are not as capable. Yet no one deigns to tell me what, exactly, has been going on here."

Draco's knuckles were nearly white then with the force he was exerting. "There's nothing you can do—"

"Oh, on the contrary, there is a great deal I can do. But in order to intervene, I need a bit more information."

"Well, you're out of luck then, aren't you?" Draco sneered, his grey eyes flashing up again. "I think we've already established that your mind tricks aren't going to do you one bit of good with me. Maybe you should try it on the others if you're so desperate—"

"I don't make a habit of violating my students' privacy," Snape informed the boy coldly, with a dark glare for good measure.

"Just me, then," Draco scathed.

"Your clumsy stunts that year not only endangered the lives of students, but very nearly exposed you!" Snape growled, losing his temper. "What do you imagine the Dark Lord would have arranged for you had you been caught and sentenced to Azkaban? Do you think he would have fancied letting you slip into the hands of Aurors, to be interrogated with Veritaserum, under the influence of which you might reveal any amount of information about his plans? And what of your parents? What price do you think Lucius and Narcissa would have paid for such clumsiness? And since you could not do me the courtesy of consulting with me in spite of my numerous entreaties and offers of assistance, I was left with little choice!"

Snape broke off his rant, breathing harshly, his black eyes glittering angrily.

Draco had shrunk back in his chair just as soon as Snape began berating him. Now he looked shriveled there, his arms wrapped over himself slightly, his shoulders shaking just a bit. He kept his face down, hidden from Snape's piercing gaze.

"I know," he croaked miserably. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have…." He shook his head to himself.

Snape gave a long-suffering sigh and wearily rubbed his eyes. Deliberately softening his tone, he said, "I do not wish to argue. And I did not invite you in to interrogate you about this unfortunate situation with Miss Parkinson. I know that it has been difficult for you to come back after all that has passed, Draco, and I wanted to let you know—you, in particular, but your housemates as well—that I am here for whatever support you might need."

"I don't know if I can stick it out for the term," Draco confessed suddenly, hugging himself a little tighter. "I didn't want to come back, but Mother insisted. I never should have agreed though. I should be home, with them…."

"I'm certain your parents can manage without you," Snape reassured the boy. "Your mother was right; it is imperative that you remain here, not only for the sake of your education but to rebuild your relationships with your peers."

Draco swallowed thickly. "Father hasn't been well," he mumbled. "Mother has been trying to keep up with things, but… you've no idea what we've lost. The Ministry seized our vaults as reparations for the war, and the estate's been sold just so we can stay afloat—"

"Yes, I'm well aware. The _Prophet_ has had a field day prying into all these financial matters. But as I said, Draco, they will manage."

Snape paused to summon two glasses and a bottle of wine from the cabinet behind him, deciding that he would have that drink after all. Draco watched almost apprehensively as Snape charmed the bottle to pour out two glasses of the ruby-red substance and pushed one toward him.

After taking a small sip and setting his glass back on his desk, Snape recommenced, "Your greatest concern now should be doing all you can to repair what has been damaged and to get yourself back into the good graces of the wizarding world. Lucius may have avoided Azkaban a second time, but you carry a heavy burden now because of his deeds and your own. If you do not use this year to prove yourself worthy of some goodwill, anything Lucius and Narcissa might accomplish will have been in vain."

Draco was shaking his head again before Snape had even finished speaking. "I should be home with my father. He's—well, you haven't seen him since…. But you know how he was last year. How much he drank, how much he locked himself away in his room. Especially after the Dark Lord would…." Draco visibly repressed a shudder.

Snape pushed Draco's wine toward him again, tilting his head at it. Draco met Snape's eyes for a fleeting moment, whispered a soft thanks, and took the glass up in his hands to nurse it.

"I am sorry, Draco," Snape told the boy sincerely. "I cannot imagine what it has been to watch him suffer as he has—"

"But he deserves it!" Draco bit out, his mood shifting like quicksilver. "If he'd never gotten us mixed up into that bloody mess, if he'd just kept his head down the first time and never taken the damned Mark, or let me take it, we'd be fine! I never would have been expected to kill Albus Dumbledore at sixteen! Father wouldn't have gone to prison and come back half a man… and Mother wouldn't spend so much time weeping, and…."

As quickly as it came, the outburst died, like a fire extinguished by a cold gust of wind. Draco even seemed to have caught a chill; he hugged himself more tightly as he lifted his wine glass to his lips.

"Not that it matters," he rasped. "Not that blaming him will do us one whit of good. It'll just drive him to drink again, and Mother has been fighting too hard to break him of that. But I don't know what to do, Severus! I write Mother, and she tells me to just concentrate on my studies, but how can I? How can I give a damn about—about Sprout's Dittany plants, or Flitwick's warding charms when all I can think about is how miserable they are, and how I should be home with them, doing something—"

"Draco," Snape cut him off. "Returning home would just give your parents one more reason to worry. You wish to add to their burden?"

"No!" Draco exclaimed. "But you can't possibly expect me just to carry on here as if nothing's wrong—"

"I most certainly don't," Snape interrupted again, allowing his tone to grow a bit more stern. "I have stated in no uncertain terms that my door is open to you. This will be a difficult year, but mark my words, _I will see you through it_. I will make another Vow if I must, if you cannot believe me."

Draco cast his eyes down again, flushing pink once more. "I don't deserve that," Draco mumbled. "After the way I treated you—after the way my parents treated you…. You have no reason to want anything to do with me. I treated you like shit—"

"Language," Snape rebuked him, but mildly. He took a moment to gather his thoughts, though, casting his gaze to the flames flickering in the hearth of his fireplace.

After a few silent moments he spoke again. "I do not fancy repeating myself. Leave the past in the past—and not another word on it. You were in a terrible position, under a lot of strain, and often it is easiest to relieve the worst of that tension by lashing out at others. I myself am guilty of… less than becoming behavior, shall we say. Your resentment was understandable, and that is all that needs to be said on the matter."

"No, it's not," Draco protested vehemently. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I didn't let you do your job, I'm sorry I made such a mess of it, I'm sorry that I've treated you like a Venomous Tentacula for the last two years. I'm sorry my father was too much of a fool to keep from making the same mistake twice. And hell, Severus, I'm sorry your life has been so _awful_ for so long, I really am. You, at least, deserve comfort—"

"Hush, you idiot," Snape growled, but not unkindly. "If we all got what we deserved, I would have been locked in Azkaban for the last two decades. Now _enough_ of these inane apologies. You will have to make your peace and do what you can to right your wrongs, but my feelings should not factor into that penance. Now, as to the road to forgiveness…."

"I don't know what to do. You know how they treat us. It's worse than second year—"

"Yes, I seem to remember your being rather enthusiastic about the school being purged of Muggleborns," Snape commented sardonically, his words taking on a hard edge. "I'm certain that did not contribute to the pariah status of Slytherin House that year, or subsequent years."

"I'm not like that anymore!" Draco cried, articulating with such force that he sloshed a bit of wine onto his lap. "You think I haven't learned? That I haven't seen what that madman tried to do all for the sake of blood purity—"

"What the Dark Lord did," Snape said in a low, icy tone, "had nothing to do with blood purity, and you are a fool if you think otherwise. He himself was a half-blood, a living example of the taint he claimed to wish to eradicate. Blood purity was merely a cause, a means to an end, a rallying cry he could use to unite the power-hungry. I should know, Draco, because he as much as told me so when I first went to him."

Draco swallowed thickly, sinking back into the chair. "Severus, I—"

"Listen," Snape hissed, leaning forward intently. His black eyes were full of focus. "The hatred spewed by Voldemort was a tool plied to his followers to cement their loyalties. It became their justification for their unabashed power-seeking. I have never paid more than lip service to the notion of blood purity because I myself am a half-blood, and I myself know full well that the most abhorrent of muggles can produce the most formidable of wizards."

Snape took a deep breath, willing himself back to a place of calm. This was turning into a tirade. But Draco needed to hear this, he told himself. It was the only way.

"My point," he continued with a heavy sigh, "is that purist ideology can readily be separated from Voldemort's rise to power. One could maintain the argument that the notion was twisted and misused by Voldemort, but that it is, in and of itself, sound. And I need to hear from your lips, Draco, in all sincerity, that you do not believe that this is so. That you believe that a Muggleborn witch can be worth every bit as much as a pureblooded wizard. I need to know that you believe that. Because without that belief, you will never break back into the good graces of our society."

Draco continued to study the wine in his glass with abnormal intensity. He did not speak for a long time, and Snape was content to let him sit there, absorbing everything that had been said.

At long last, and in a very soft voice, Draco murmured, "Tori's very adamant about how pureblood ideology is nonsense."

Snape suppressed an amused smile in spite of the gravity of the subject. He had noticed that Draco was quite taken with a certain young lady, and he'd begun to wonder if she would have any influence on him. "Miss Greengrass the younger?"

"Astoria, yes. Daphne's younger sister. She could run a whole class on the topic. Her parents aren't too thrilled…."

"Ah, well," Snape murmured, allowing a bit of approval to color his words. "Rome wasn't built in a day. Changes like these—paradigm shifts—they take time and effort. But fraternizing with sensible Slytherins isn't the only effort necessary to make amends. Things are tense now, but you are in a position to extend an olive branch to the other houses, to admit your faults and humble yourself. If you can convince at least a few students—especially those in your year—that you truly and deeply repent of the role you've played in the war, the rest of the student body should follow suit."

Draco took a long draught of his wine, draining almost the entire glass. "So where do I start? Potter?"

Snape dipped his head slightly. "Potter," he confirmed. "Given your… past history… I know that the task will not be easy. However, his celebrity status and his role in defeating the Dark Lord will certainly be a great boon in this undertaking. Not to mention that he has proven himself to be of a rather forgiving disposition."

Draco's eyes flashed up, and for a moment Snape saw pain and shame, emotions that the Slytherin boy usually took great pains to conceal. It was a rare glimpse of vulnerability. "He saved my life. Twice." Draco shook his head slightly in disbelief. "After everything, he… we were in the Room of Requirement, and he was looking for something—and then Crabbe…." Draco's voice hitched slightly. "He conjured Fiendfyre. The three of them—Granger, Weasley, and Potter—they were going to fly out on brooms, but… but Potter made them turn back for us…."

Snape fought back the scathing remark on Gryffindor bravery that bubbled to his lips. There was no need to hide his genuine admiration for the boy any longer—though, he mused, it was far easier to cut the boy wonder down to size than acknowledge how extraordinary he sometimes was. But then, jealousy had always been one of the major emotions tied into the matrix of Snape's animosity, loath as he was to admit it.

"I lost my mother's wand." Draco's voice was just a faint whisper then. "Crabbe was dead, Goyle was _useless_ … they abandoned me, and I ran into a Death Eater, couldn't tell who—and Potter protected me. _Again_. After Crabbe tried to incinerate him."

Snape tapped his fingers against the surface of his desk as he mulled over what Draco had told him. "Sometimes," he began slowly, pronouncing his words with great care, "it is harder to forgive someone for an undeserved good turn than a bad one."

"Forgive," Draco scoffed. "Yeah, that's the way to win Potter over. I'll just saunter up to him, cool as you please, and say, 'Just wanted to let you know,I forgive you for keeping me alive when you could've hexed me into oblivion.' He might just change his mind—"

"That is not what I meant, Draco," Snape cut him off impatiently. "You feel you are in his debt—as you well should, might I add. And it is your nature—our nature, rather, as I believe it is a House trait—to wish for that debt to be settled, because until it is we find ourselves on an uneven playing field. But however you may try, I doubt you will be able to pay back a life debt _twice_. So, unless you wish to spend the rest of your life trying to pay down that debt, I suggest you work on reconciling with the fact that you are only breathing by his good graces."

Snape half-expected to hear some form of protest from Draco, something about how it wasn't _that_ big of a deal, that Potter had only done it because he felt he had to. Some feeble excuse to lessen the gravity of what he'd just revealed.

Perhaps two years ago, Draco Malfoy would have done something along those lines. But the broken boy sitting before him, the one struggling hard to be a man, who was also hurting like a terrified child, did nothing of the sort.

"He brought a card for Pansy."

"I know. Would you expect anything less from the magnanimous Chosen One?"

Draco sighed in frustration. "It's just… how the hell can I settle a score like this when he keeps going around like a bloody merry house elf, trying to cheer everyone up—"

"Draco," Snape growled, "did you hear a word of what I just said? This is not about _scores_. This is about fashioning yourself into someone worthy of a second chance. It is a long, hard road; believe me, I speak from experience. But your redemption has nothing to do with your life debt to Potter, just as mine has had nothing to do with my debt to Professor Dumbledore."

Draco ran a hand through his pale blond hair in frustration. "Fine. But what do I _do_? Send Potter a bouquet? Go grovel in front of him on bended knee? Tell him I need his wisdom to walk the path of light?"

Snape pressed his lips into a tight line. "You could start by _apologizing_ ," he suggested coolly, "and explaining yourself."

"You're one to talk, _Severus_ ," Draco muttered.

Snape felt a flush of prickling anger along the collar of his neck. "Mind your tongue. My relationship with Potter is none of your business, and I suggest you remember that, unless you would like to be the first in Slytherin to serve a detention with your new Head of House."

Draco made a slightly derisive noise and shifted in his seat.

Snape sighed to himself. Some things never changed. Draco had never been particularly respectful. His little show at the beginning of the meeting had deeply surprised Snape, in fact. But he supposed this was what he got for trying to reestablish a personal relationship….

"I suggest you take some time to think about what it is you might say to Mr. Potter and friends. If you want to discuss it, you're welcome to come to me."

Draco nodded. "You… you really think he'll give a shrivelfig about helping me?"

Snape snorted. "A noble Gryffindor? But of course. But," he added, all levity disappearing from his tone, "mark my words, Draco. Do not attempt to manipulate or maneuver Potter. He'll see right through it, and he will not appreciate it. Best not to approach him at all if you cannot be sincere."

Draco merely nodded at that.

Snape decided it was time for a subject change. "How are classes going?"

Draco shrugged. "Well, I suppose. As well as can be expected when every other student and most of the teachers treat you like you're some species of slug."

"I can have a word with the professors, particularly the other Heads of House—"

"Don't bother," Draco grumbled. "Really, you'll just make it worse. There's already rumors of a petition to the ministry to remove all Slytherins involved in the war from Hogwarts, and the last thing we need is any pressure pushing that through."

"Who is circulating this petition?"

Draco huffed in irritation, his annoyed grey eyes flashing up to Snape. "I don't know! I said it was a rumor, didn't I? And did you hear a word I said? If you go poking your big nose into things—"

Snape glowered fiercely at the boy, lips parting to deliver a stinging rebuke.

"Poor choice of words," Draco hastily amended, casting his eyes to the side. But it was obvious that the insult had been intentional.

Snape let it ride, though. It wasn't important, he decided.

"What I mean is, if the students start hearing that they have to give our House special consideration and play nice and all, they'll be furious. They'll be twice as motivated to have the ministry intervene, and we all know _their_ feelings on the matter, don't we? I bet if they had their way, they'd burn Salazar Slytherin right out of the history books—"

"I need you to trust me to handle the matter, Draco," Snape cut him off smoothly. "The ministry's views are not so cut and dry, and I have many contacts who would be willing to intervene at my behest. They would hear reason, especially since alienating the children of former Death Eaters would only create resentment and possibly further conflict—"

"But they'd love that!" Draco cried. "They'd love to goad us into fighting back, don't you see? It would give them an excuse to put the lot of us down, or lock us all up in Azkaban. Look, it's nothing we can't handle. We know how to take care of our own, all right?"

"And I know how to take care of _my_ own," Snape retorted fiercely. "That has not changed one whit. My loyalty as your Head of House was not a front, I can assure you." Snape sighed and massaged his brow, which was tight from the tense conversation. "I spied on the Dark Lord for years, Draco, while making him believe that I was actually spying on Albus Dumbledore. Do you believe I do not possess the discretion to deal with this matter appropriately? Or did you believe that, upon learning the names of these students, I would go around to their dorms, nailing accusations to their doors?"

Draco pursed his lips and slumped deeper into his chair, saying nothing.

Snape rose from his chair and, rounding the desk, went to stand beside the blond boy. He placed a hand on his shoulder. "We will resolve this," he promised, his voice low and fervent. "And things will get better. But until they do… remember, Draco, you are not alone. If you truly are sorry for turning your back on me, the least you can do to show it is rely upon my wisdom and judgment now. I am offering you help _again_ , so please, do not be a fool twice."

Draco's eyes flickered up to meet Snape's, both uncertain and grateful. He took a moment to answer, and when he did finally find his voice, his words were shaky. But there was conviction behind them.

"I won't," he whispered.

XXXXX

Harry twiddled nervously with the bottlecap he'd been using to practice transfiguration. McGonagall had them turning it into a full dining set using an initial transfiguration and then duplication spells, and Harry's was still looking rather shabby. McGonagall had promised a test on it sometime in the next week, and Harry knew he'd better get a grip on it soon—since as of right then, his end result was a rather chipped and thinned dining set that looked as if it would dissolve into dust the minute anyone tried to use it to serve dinner.

He'd probably have to ask Hermione for help with that too. Not that she wasn't used to it by then.

But right now she was scanning over the text Snape had recommended to him, trying to parse it so that she could dumb it down for him. So that he could have something useful to report to the professor in the next week—and an excuse to continue to pester the man.

"So?" Harry demanded impatiently.

Hermione held up a finger, her eyes never leaving the book. They flickered back and forth rapidly, scanning the minute lines with an intensity that was borderline unnerving. Finally she pushed the book back from her and sighed, shaking her head.

Harry waited with bated breath, pressing his bottlecap more tightly into his palm.

"Goodness, Harry, it's definitely complex."

"Well, yeah," he agreed, trying to hide his irritation. "But you do understand it, right?"

Hermione pushed back a section of her bushy hair and slumped a little in the plush chair.

At least the three of them had gotten to claim a good section of the Common Room for the afternoon. Though Ron was definitely ignoring them. He was too engrossed with his quidditch magazine, reading the latest article on the Chudley Cannons, who were, against all odds, in the British semi-finals.

"Look, it's like this," Hermione began. "Spell creation is tied to etymology and linguistics, and it's really delicate business. There's only a handful of official programs for it in the world, and they're all really, really selective. I mean, this is a topic they don't even cover for any N.E.W.T.s—it's not even mentioned in passing, so that should give you an idea—"

"I get it!" Harry cut her off, his frustration boiling over. "It's really complex stuff and it's way over my head and there's no way I'm going to understand. But please, Hermione, can you try to explain? Because Snape said this was the only thing we could discuss, and I need to sound like I at least have a clue of what I'm talking about."

Hermione sighed heavily and fixed Harry with a pitying stare, a look he positively loathed. "Look, Harry, I get that you think this is important, and I think it's great that you want to be on better terms with Professor Snape, but…."

"But?" Harry demanded, a hard edge entering his tone. He could tell where this was headed, and he didn't like it one bit.

"He's still been horrible over the years! I get that he had a role to play and that he was under a lot of stress, and that he risked a lot for the Order during war and all, but still, Harry, he's an awful, bitter person and he's very clearly shoving you away. You're wasting your time on this, and he's just going to end up hurting you in the end, because you're going to put all this time and effort into trying to get him to like you—"

"That's not it!" Harry cut her off. "I don't need him to like me, okay? I just… I want him to _know_ me. Not 'famous Harry Potter' or 'the Chosen One' or any of that rubbish. Just me. And then if he still hates me, I can deal with it, because then it's a personal problem, not this stupid hero mystique that everyone gets lost in. And you're right, he's been horrible to me and a lot of other people, but I don't know what he's been going through for the Order and Dumbledore, and I don't know what his life has been like. And I'm trying not to judge him like I did before. And right now, the only way I can get to know him, and get him to know me, is by figuring out what this damned theory even means, okay?"

Harry's words were angry and loud enough to stun Hermione into silence and draw Ron out of his article. They both looked at him, wide-eyed, as if they thought he'd lost it. Harry growled in frustration and, pushing his glasses up, began rubbing his eyes with his palms, trying to calm himself down.

"I just… I don't want you to torture yourself with this," Hermione said at last in a small voice. "You can't fix everyone and everything, Harry, and you shouldn't feel guilty about that."

"Hermione's right, Snape's a git," Ron concurred sagely. "He's not worth your time. If he wants to be a miserable bastard, I say let him."

Harry groaned a little to himself. They just didn't get it. "Look, I don't want to fight. And I really do want to help with the Sectumsempra research. So… could you help sum this theory up for me, Hermione? Please?"

Hermione hesitated, then finally gave a tiny nod of assent. "So, like I was saying. Incanting and spells are tied to linguistics and etymology, which is why Latinate phrases are so often used, since Latin itself is a dead and thus unchanging language."

Harry started to scramble around for a quill and parchment. "Hang on," he called, rifling through his bag. "Just a second, let me write this down…."

Hermione huffed an impatient sigh but said nothing.

At last Harry had smoothed a fresh sheet of parchment before him and had fished out a Self-Inking quill. "Okay," he said as he scratched out notes, "spells are tied to language, so Latin is used because it's dead. Got it."

Hermione was at least gracious enough to slow down her explanation enough that Harry could scribble down key points. "So, precision is then the key when crafting a spell. Sectumsempra is fully Latinate, so you shouldn't have to navigate multiple languages. But in order to correctly counter it, you have to be certain that the counter-curse uses the exact same parts of speech. So, I assume that 'sectum' is a singular nominative neuter inflection of the verb 'sectus', which is to cut…."

"English, Hermione," Harry begged. "I never took Latin."

Hermione sighed again. "Look, just tell Snape that Ramkin postulates that he has to identify the parts of speech used in the original incantation and be certain to use those same parts of speech for the counter-curse."

"Wait," Ron interrupted suddenly. "Doesn't Snape already have a counter-curse? You told us that when you cut Malfoy to ribbons that one time—sixth year—that Snape was there right away and he was able to close up all the cuts—"

"That's different," Hermione told him. "From what I understand, that was an original healing spell but _not_ a counter-curse. A true counter-curse yields a net balance of zero, meaning that whatever is done by the curse is undone by the counter-curse, no more and no less. Snape was able to close up the cuts, but that just sped up the closure of the wounds. It didn't vanish them. It's the same thing with _Ennervate_ and _Stupefy_. _Ennervate_ doesn't give you an excess of energy or anything; it just returns you to the state you were prior to being hexed."

Harry tilted his head back and closed his eyes. "Ugh, this is such a headache…."

"You don't think he gave you this on purpose?" Hermione inquired, her tone too innocent. "You know, something so dense that you couldn't possibly get a handle on it? Maybe he set you up to fail—"

"It was his reading list. He just whipped it out of his desk and handed it over to me. I can show you if you want. It's annotated and everything." Harry pushed himself to his feet, deciding that he really needed a walk to clear his head before their Defense class. They still had a good hour or so before it began anyway. "Maybe I really can't be useful. And I don't know what to do in that case, because… I don't know, maybe this really is barmy. But I want this to work out. But it's not like I can just chat about the weather or something casual with him…."

Ron winced, probably imagining the torture of trying to make small talk with Snape. " 'Fifty points from Gryffindor for bothering me with these trifles,'" Ron quipped.

"Look, I need a break. I'll catch up with you before Defense, all right?"

Hermione and Ron both frowned.

"Where are you going?" Ron demanded suspiciously. "Gonna go snog Ginny, is that right?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "If we were going to do that, I'd do it right in front of you. Ginny thinks it's funny when you go all purple."

"Do not!" Ron protested. "And you should—"

"I'm _not_ meeting Ginny, all right? She's in Herbology now anyway, you dolt. I just need to stretch my legs."

"You want us to go with you?" Hermione offered.

"Nah," Harry replied with a reassuring grin. "I'm just going to pop down the Infirmary real quick and see how Pansy's doing if she's still there."

Ron groaned. "You're not obsessing over that too, are you? Look, I know you said that some of the students were talking about having an open season on Slytherins, but come on, after last year…. It's just talk, and Pansy's just one case, all right? Can this be the one year where we don't sneak around trying to solve all of Hogwarts' problems? You know, let the next generation take up the mantle and all that."

"I'm just checking on her," Harry stressed, "as a concerned classmate. All right? I'm not going to go start a crusade or anything. I'm just doing what Snape said, publicly showing my sympathy."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Oh, well if _Snape_ said, then you'd best do it. Can't let him down and find out what it's like for him not to like you or something. Wouldn't _that_ be awful?"

Harry shoved his bottlecap into his pocket. "He really has been decent lately," Harry stated defensively. "He even gave Gryffindor points—"

"Five measly points," Ron griped. "After all the points he's knocked off over the years? I think the balance is still pretty bad on the whole, mate. Now, if he wants to start handing them out like they're candy, then, maybe, we can talk about him being _decent_."

"There's more to life than points," Hermione grumbled, though she didn't sound too supportive of Harry's "Snape is decent" argument.

Harry decided that it was a good time to leave. "Thanks for your help, Hermione. I'll see you both later."

As he left, he heard Ron mutter something that sounded suspiciously like, "Probably needs the extra time to crawl all the way up Snape's arse".

Hermione's high-pitched "Ronald!" was all he needed for confirmation.


	8. Chapter 8

Harry ended up in the Owlery instead. He was pretty sure that Pansy had been released anyway, especially since Snape had taken care of the worst of her injuries. That, and Harry generally detested the Hospital Wing, given all the time he'd spent there over the years.

He figured it was about time to pay his owl a visit anyway. So he'd found the large brown barn owl—another gift from Hagrid, which Harry had thought was only too appropriate. Though it did increase the longing pangs he sometimes felt when he'd look at the bird and imagine it instead as a white, snowy owl.

Harry absently stroked the bird's head. "Have a good week, Dobby?" he inquired absently, glancing over at the bird's large, kind eyes. He felt another pang course through him. He'd originally thought to name his owl after the house elf as a kind of tribute, but he'd found out rather quickly that the bird's large eyes reminded him a little too much of Dobby's. Not that he minded too much. The resulting ache in his heart was bittersweet, full of love and appreciation for the little elf.

The owl nibbled affectionately at Harry's fingers, then cocked its head inquisitively at Harry's pockets.

Harry chortled a little. "Sorry, boy," he murmured. "Didn't bring you any treats. I know, terrible of me, right?"

Harry heard footsteps on the stairs. He turned slightly just in time to catch sight of a blond head of hair bobbing up the spiral staircase. Malfoy.

Instinctively, Harry reached for his wand.

Malfoy froze at the top of the stairs, his nervous eyes flickering to Harry's grip on his wand handle.

Harry forced himself to relax. This wasn't like previous years, he reminded himself. "Malfoy," he greeted the boy coolly.

"Potter," the boy returned. He strode over to a small greyish owl and drew a letter out of his pocket. The owl gripped the parchment firmly in its claws and, with a little hop toward the open window, pushed itself off and into the great blue yonder.

"So," Harry began, not sure why he was bothering to make small talk. But part of him felt like it was vital. It was like with Snape, he realized. He had to force these awkward interactions in order to normalize their relationships… if normalcy was even a remote possibility. "Letter home?"

Malfoy nodded, not meeting his eyes.

"Er… everything going all right?" Harry cleared his throat a little. "I mean—after everything…. I hear that you've—well, I mean, I can't imagine it's been easy—"

Malfoy's lips curled into a sneer, though Harry noted that no emotion reached his eyes. "Can't be easy being ostracized and poor and under investigation? No, doesn't seem like that would be very pleasant, does it?"

Harry took a deep breath, fighting back a biting retort. Though he was about sick of always being the one to keep things civil. "I just wanted to say that I was sorry to hear about it, is all. Can't imagine that it's easy to come back with all that going on—"

"You want to say it serves me right, is what you mean," Malfoy hissed. "Go on, go ahead. I've already heard it. And it may surprise you to know that I've thought it too, because, yes, I know I did some awful things, and I should be in a cell in Azkaban—"

"I wasn't going to say any of that!" Harry spat, losing his calm. "What, you think I want to gloat? You think I'm so petty that I'd actually enjoy seeing you suffer like this? We've had our moments, Malfoy, and there've been a number of times when I probably would have loved to see you get your just deserts. But you know what? People deserve second chances. And I know it's going to be hard for you to get a real one. But what should you care what Harry Bloody Potter thinks?"

Harry was ready to leave then. He was pretty certain he didn't want to hear another word of what Malfoy was going to say.

"Wait," Malfoy began in what Harry thought was a rather haughty, imperious tone.

Harry felt a hand on his arm. His whole body tensed for a fight. His automatic reaction was to spin around, draw his wand from his pocket, and cast the first spell that came to his mind—a Severing Charm.

The spell caught Malfoy on the shoulder, slicing through fabric and skin and leaving a large gash across his arm and breast. Malfoy stumbled back, a hand going to his wound, his face contorting in agony. "Shit," he hissed, his hand clutching the cut so tightly that it went even more white than usual. "I wasn't going to attack—"

"Bloody hell," Harry muttered, staring numbly at his handiwork. "I didn't mean to—I just—Merlin, let's just get you down to the Hospital Wing. I'm really sorry, honest, I just thought… well, you sounded…." Harry groaned and muttered an incantation to create bandages, wishing not for the first time that he'd bothered to practice more healing spells. At least Madam Pomfrey would know what to do.

"I'm so sorry," he repeated as he helped Malfoy bind up the wound. "It was just instinct—"

"Just drop it, Potter," Malfoy said through gritted teeth. "I know, all right?" He sucked in a ragged breath. "Merlin's balls, you just spent a year being hunted down. I should have realized you'd be a bit jumpy."

Harry was too proud to say it out loud, but he was relieved that Malfoy wasn't holding a grudge like he normally would have. Maybe it was just because Malfoy thought he was Famous Harry Potter who could do no wrong, especially now that he was some kind of war hero. Still, it was refreshing to be able to have a mishap like this with Malfoy and not have it turn into a duel.

Because Harry really did want to keep the peace, especially now.

Malfoy took a moment to adjust the bandages. His silver eyes darted up to meet Harry's for a moment. "I know where the Hospital Wing is, you know," he drawled, though his voice was still a little shaky. "You don't have to escort me."

Harry shoved his wand back into his pocket. "I—I know, I just want to make sure they know what happened. Just in case, you know…." _I get in trouble_.

Malfoy shrugged, though the motion appeared to agitate his injury, causing him to wince. "Well, I've had worse," he said with a significant glance over at Harry.

Harry blushed a little. "I uh… I never really said sorry—"

"By Merlin, Potter, I'd almost killed a girl and I tried to cast a curse at you! I can own up to my mistakes, all right? I'm trying. I didn't mean it like that, I just was… oh, never mind."

That sounded almost like an apology, Harry thought. It was too strange, especially coming from Malfoy. But then, he supposed, a lot had changed. It had been a long, dark year, and war had a way of putting things into perspective.

"Well, it didn't make what I did right," Harry mumbled. "You might've bled out if it hadn't been for Professor Snape. It's not like I've been perfect—"

"Give it a rest, Potter," Malfoy grumbled. "I get it, all right? You're good incarnate, magnanimous and generous and humble." The boy rolled his eyes. "You wouldn't have lasted a day in Slytherin."

"Good thing I talked the hat out of putting me there," Harry muttered under his breath.

Malfoy's eyes widened at that, but he said nothing. Instead, he strode past Harry, making his way down the spiral steps. Harry followed closely behind him, still feeling more than a little guilty.

The implications of this were starting to hit him. If word got around that he'd attacked Malfoy… he shuddered. No, he was definitely going to have to step up and take responsibility for this mishap, and make sure that his remorse was readily apparent. Though even that might not be enough to stop the rumors.

At least they didn't cross anyone else in the halls. Which meant that, if the Hospital Wing was mostly empty, there might be a hope of things not getting out of hand.

It didn't take long for Madam Pomfrey to make her way over to them once they'd entered the Infirmary. "Gracious, not another," she muttered. "Over here, Mr. Malfoy, if you will—and off with the robes and shirt. I'll contact your Head of House—"

"That's not necessary," Malfoy grunted, his hand still clenched over his wound. "It's just a little nick—"

"Nonsense! That is another attack on a student, and I've already had words with both the headmistress and Professor Snape. We _will_ be getting to the bottom of this. Stay right there."

"Actually, Madam Pomfrey…," Harry began, but it was no use. The witch was already gone, headed, without a doubt, to use the private Floo in her office.

Malfoy sighed dramatically and settled himself onto the cot Pomfrey had indicated, then began undoing the clasp of his robes. "I'll explain," he said. "You don't have to mill about, Potter."

"Actually, I'd better—"

"I'm not going to lie to them!" Malfoy snapped angrily, his eyes flashing as if he were offended. "I'll tell them that I startled you and that it was just a reflex. All right? I'm not going to say you tried to hex me from the shadows or something—"

"I didn't think you were!" Harry protested. "I just wanted to make sure that no one thinks I'm getting away with something—"

"They won't! No one cares! You could strangle me in my sleep and they'd give you an Order of Merlin, all right? So just go on."

"I want to be held responsible, you prat!" Harry hissed. "Don't you get it? If I slip off now and anyone realizes I attacked you, they might start to think that it's okay to hunt down Slytherins—which some of them already do, and we hardly need to make that worse! Oh, and don't even go off about how I'm famous Harry Potter, I'm so important, I influence everyone—because as much as I hate it, it's true—"

"Gentlemen."

Harry felt the color drain from his face at that single cold word. McGonagall. And she sounded extremely displeased.

Harry whipped around to find the headmistress glowering at him, her arms folded over her chest. She was far more imposing than Dumbledore had ever been. And now here he was, standing before her with a wounded Malfoy—which in and of itself dredged up bad memories from sixth year.

As if that wasn't bad enough, she was flanked by Snape, who looked grim and unpleasant as ever in his long dark robes, with the corners of his mouth turned down in a sour expression. His black eyes were impassive for the moment, but Harry had a feeling that they were about to be filled with a great deal of scorn and ire, all directed at him.

"If you could desist from squabbling, we have some questions."

Madam Pomfrey came bustling back to them, a few vials in her hands. "I'll just take care of Mr. Malfoy," she murmured.

"Please, Poppy," McGonagall agreed, her gaze softening for a moment when it touched on the wounded boy. Her eyes were fierce when they moved back to Harry, though. "Mr. Potter."

Harry swallowed thickly. He knew that tone.

"I cannot begin to express how disappointed I am in you. I'd thought that we'd addressed this issue quite thoroughly some years ago. I believe it was Professor Snape himself who took it upon himself to discipline you for attacking another student—the very same student sitting before me today!" McGonagall's tone rose with her anger until it was shrill and tremulous, just short of a yell.

Harry hung his head, knowing better than to try to contradict her. Not when she was in this mood.

"I want to make one thing very clear, Mr. Potter. You have done a great many things over the years, last year especially, and we all owe you a debt for that. But that in no way—I repeat, _no way_ —gives you a carte blanche to attack students indiscriminately! You should be absolutely ashamed of this behavior, whatever your past may be with Mr. Malfoy. I will _not_ tolerate this sort of foolishness at Hogwarts, and mark my words, you will be dealt with severely—"

"Professor," Malfoy chimed in, to Harry's astonishment. When had Malfoy ever wanted to stop McGonagall from chewing Harry out, especially when he had a front row seat? "It wasn't like that—"

"Mr. Malfoy, I will hear from you in a moment, I assure you. But you should feel no compulsion to defend Mr. Potter's actions, whatever your shared history. He has no right to exact justice like this, and I will not stand for it—"

"Minerva." Snape spoke quietly, respectfully. "We've yet to hear what has occurred. Perhaps we could let either Mr. Potter or Mr. Malfoy explain the circumstances of this altercation?"

Snape's very reasonable suggestion seemed to completely derail the headmistress. Perhaps, thought Harry, because it had come _from Snape._

She blinked, her mouth still slightly ajar, before gathering herself and retorting a touch huffily, "I think it is very clear what occurred here, Severus, as Mr. Malfoy bears a significant wound while Mr. Potter remains entirely untouched. As I said, we've seen this exact situation before, and I made myself very clear of what would happen if we were to see a repeat of this. I will, of course, wait to hear Professor Babbling's take on the matter. She is indisposed, and it is her right to discipline Mr. Potter as Head of House… but I will be making certain that the punishment fits the crime—"

"Headmistress, I've no doubt of your good intentions," Snape interrupted, his voice calm, almost placating. "But perhaps we could withhold judgment until the facts are made plain. Your inferences may be correct, but let us wait for confirmation before jumping to… drastic conclusions."

Harry could feel his gut clench. This sounded too similar in his mind to the advice Snape had offered to Dumbledore during their second year, when they'd been found alone with a petrified Mrs. Norris. His smooth suggestion that they might be victims of circumstances had just been a prelude to a scathing delivery of his suspicions.

McGonagall pursed her lips so tightly that they nearly disappeared. She continued to glower at Harry, but she conceded, "Very well. Mr. Potter, an account of this altercation, if you would."

Harry cast a nervous glance at Snape, whose face was still remarkably blank. Harry had expected a triumphant sneer to emerge already, especially after McGonagall's verbal evisceration. "I—I did attack Malfoy. With a Severing Charm. But it was an accident—"

"Infliction of this kind of wound is rarely an 'accident'," McGonagall bit out sharply, her eyes flashing, "especially not when performed by a capable seventh year who has already attained his majority."

"It was, Professor," Harry protested, his voice hoarse. "It was a reaction. We were in the Owlery, and our conversation got—well, it was a bit heated—and I turned to leave. Malfoy grabbed my arm, and I just kind of… well, I didn't know what he was going to do, so instinct took over, and the next thing I knew I'd cast a _diffindo_ —"

"A likely story," McGonagall growled. "As I recall, the last time was in self-defense as well, was it not? Yet you managed to escape unscathed, while Mr. Malfoy was covered in deep cuts that Professor Snape was fortunately able to close before Mr. Malfoy bled out. You must exhibit greater restraint, Potter—"

"Professor, it's true," Malfoy broke in, sounding almost pleading. "I—I was getting testy, so Potter started to leave. But I didn't want to end things on that note, so I made to stop him, and he just sort of reacted—a reflex. And he apologized right after and walked me down here. He wanted to take responsibility."

Harry could feel Snape's eyes on him, studying him closely. It wasn't a comfortable feeling.

McGonagall seemed to calm a bit at Malfoy's words, at least. Her eyes were less hard, and her lips had certainly relaxed enough that they were no longer quite so pale. "Well," she murmured. "Poppy, what is the diagnosis?"

"A shallow cut," Madam Pomfrey announced as she dabbed a blue solution over Malfoy's rent flesh. "Nothing that won't mend immediately. I'll have him patched up within the hour."

"You both agree it was an accident, then?" McGonagall asked more quietly, her tone more professorial than harsh now.

Harry merely nodded along with Malfoy.

"I'm surprised you agree on anything, given the vehement argument we walked in on." McGonagall let the unspoken question hang in the air, her stern gaze flickering between the two boys.

Again, it was Malfoy who spoke up. "I was telling Potter to run along, since this is hardly a scratch. He insisted on staying. Nothing important."

Harry was surprised—and grateful—for Malfoy's succinct and honest summary. He had a feeling McGonagall wouldn't believe the same explanation from his lips for some reason.

McGonagall certainly seemed discomfited now. "Well," she repeated. She cleared her throat lightly. "I… suppose I owe you something of an apology, Potter, for—ah—getting ahead of myself. But this still speaks of a lack of impulse control, and I would advise you to work on it. Poor restraint is a quality ill-suited to an Auror, and Magical Law Enforcement will be far less forgiving than your classmates of mishaps such as this. Is that understood?"

Harry felt a lump tight in his throat. He did not like the feeling that he'd disappointed McGonagall, and even less her implications that he was not yet ready to be an Auror. Maybe she had a point though. He could have seriously injured Malfoy.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied faintly. He could still feel Snape's eyes on him. What he would have given to Disapparate on the spot, or better, to Obliviate himself and forget that the professor had ever witnessed this lecture. It had been bad enough the first time he'd had to endure it.

McGonagall nodded stiffly. "Since the offense is not so grievous, I won't involve myself. Professor Snape, as it was your student who was injured, I'll leave you to determine appropriate consequences."

Harry tried to decide which was worse, having McGonagall punish him or having her hand the reins over to Snape. Because however well he and the potions master were getting on these days, it certainly didn't mean that the man would go easy on him. Especially not after Harry had attacked his favorite student. Again.

"Very well, Minerva," Snape replied smoothly. "I'd like a word this evening, if you will. Perhaps we could dine together?"

Understanding lit up in McGonagall's eyes. "Ah, have you come to a decision?"

"I have," Snape replied evenly.

"And?"

Snape heaved a sigh. "We can discuss it this evening."

"So yes, then."

Snape inclined his head slightly, his features still schooled into a mask.

"Excellent," she murmured. "I'll expect you at seven, then, my office." McGonagall turned back to Harry once more, her expression softening further. "Potter… I really do regret having jumped to conclusions. I should not have spoken so harshly."

Harry winced. "It's fine, Professor. I understand."

McGonagall opened her mouth as if she wished to say more, but then closed it abruptly. She gave a brisk nod of farewell to everyone present before striding off, her gait as purposeful as ever.

Harry tensed then, waiting for the barrage of insults to start. Because there would be no painless announcement of a detention or a point deduction, he knew. There would be needling and sneering first. _Didn't learn your lesson the first time? My, but the Chosen One has a violent streak…._

"Potter, I believe you've acted appropriately here, the headmistress' chastisements aside. You're dismissed."

Harry couldn't help but stare at Snape, flabbergasted. He had to swallow a few times before he could even get his tongue to work. "Sir?" he finally managed to force out. "But—aren't you going to take points, or give me a detention—"

"Tell me, Potter, how do you understand the phrase _acted appropriately_? Have the words taken on new meaning without my knowledge?"

There was the sarcasm, Harry thought. But it still wasn't right. Harry just stared at Snape, who still showed nothing outwardly. Even the frown that had creased his lips was gone. "I—I attacked Malfoy," he stammered. "I—"

"Yes," Snape growled impatiently, "and given your elucidation of the circumstances, it seems apparent that it was, indeed, a regrettable accident meriting no disciplinary action. Now, I would like a word with Draco, if I may, so if you would kindly remove yourself from the Infirmary, as I've no intention of writing you a pass for my own class…."

Harry took the hint then. "Sorry, Malfoy," he mumbled again, just for good measure, then added, "thanks, Professor. See you soon." And on that note, he hurried out into the hall before things could become even more confusing.

XXXXX

Snape tapped a finger lightly against his saucer. It was a nervous tic, he knew, one that under normal circumstances he would have taken pains to curtail. He was not, after all, in the habit of wearing his emotions on his sleeve. But he supposed that with Minerva it didn't matter as much. She wasn't in the habit of reading into ever small gesture and extrapolating upon it, he reasoned.

They'd passed a pleasant dinner together that evening, filled mostly with empty talk on unimportant subjects. The final repairs being made to the castle, the rare plants recently acquired for the greenhouse.

But they'd moved onto tea now. And that meant it was also time to move on to serious matters.

"So," McGonagall sighed at last, "am I to understand that you will be accepting the position of deputy headmaster?"

"On a provisional basis, yes," Snape replied coolly.

"Meaning?"

Snape sipped his tea, using the moment to gather his thoughts. "Meaning that this, like my position as Head of House, will be for a single year only with no expectation of renewal."

"Of course, Severus," McGonagall murmured. "I cannot tell you how appreciative I am. And if you've ever a need of a break, know that we can arrange for something for your classes. I'm certain someone—Filius, perhaps—could take over for you—"

Snape snorted lightly and shook his head. "I've no doubt he's capable, but I assure you, I've no need of a break. And after six years of abysmal instruction, it seems that the students could do with a consistent instructor and a rigorous course."

"And which year, Severus, was not 'abysmal' in your books?" McGonagall inquired, a hint of amusement in her eyes.

"Certainly not the werewo—Lupin's," he caught himself. But he immediately regretted the words that had once slipped out so easily past his lips. The man had died in battle. He'd given his life for the cause.

A shadow seemed to pass over them for a moment, dampening the atmosphere.

Snape cast his eyes to the side and mumbled, "He deserved better." Perhaps the kindest words he'd ever uttered on the subject of Remus Lupin.

McGonagall said nothing, but the solemnity of her expression in that moment spoke volumes. Many had deserved better, not that what they'd deserved had made any difference in he end.

"There is a small pay raise with the position," McGonagall said suddenly. Not the smoothest of transitions, but it did enough to drag both of them away from the dark events of the past year. "Slightly more substantial than that for Head of House—"

"You know that doesn't concern me in the least," Snape muttered impatiently.

"Even so, you should know. Your quarters will also be available to you year-round, of course, and there will be a great deal more summer work than normal. Speaking from experience, it is generally easier to remain in residence and plan holidays than move out completely at the end of term… but that is, of course, only a bit of friendly advice."

Snape had to suppress a small smile. If he never had to return to his home at Spinner's End, he thought, he might die a happy man after all. He had half a mind to torch the place, as impractical as that might be.

"I will keep that in mind. I suppose you have some paperwork for me?"

A few moments later, Snape was poring over the pages of a binding magical contract, occasionally glancing over at a copy of the Hogwarts Charter that Minerva had kindly provided for reference. He preferred to thoroughly read through agreements before signing, and this was proving to be an entertaining exercise, since there were more subtleties to the role he was assuming than he'd originally suspected.

"Mm, I didn't realize that I could overturn your decisions as long as I am supported by a simple majority of the staff. Fascinating."

"Do you _plan_ on opposing me at every step?" McGonagall demanded, a lilt of challenge in in her words.

"Oh, certainly not, Minerva. Still, it is useful to know that I have the option. Especially if you ever decide to verbally flay one of my students as you did Potter this afternoon."

Snape caught a bit of red coloring McGonagall's cheeks. "Well, it was highly irresponsible of the boy… and besides, what was I to think? After that dreadful incident his sixth year… you said yourself, Mr. Malfoy could easily have died there on the bathroom floor! I thought the boy had learned his lesson—"

"Minerva, Potter only acted in self-defense that time," Snape sighed heavily. "And before you accuse me of partisanship, I'll have you remember that I was balancing a very delicate role at the time, trying to convince Mr. Malfoy to confide in me _and_ keep Potter alive _and_ maintain my cover as a loyal Death Eater. Potter shouldn't have used an untested spell, that was utterly reckless, but Draco attempted a Cruciatus curse. Potter was trying to save himself, not hunt down and kill a rival."

McGonagall made a startled, strangling noise in response.

Severus barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes. "I think Saturday detentions were an appropriate consequence for trifling with untested spells. Amongst other things," he added under his breath, thinking of his old textbook that Potter had refused to produce.

"Severus, I was beside myself—how could you let me think that he'd attacked—unprovoked—" McGonagall seemed so discomfited that she could hardly string together a coherent sentence.

Snape met McGonagall's bewildered gaze squarely. "Draco needed to believe that I would protect him at all costs. I believe we have different opinions when it comes to the ends justifying the means, Minerva, and I was not ready to chance letting you know that a student had attempted an Unforgivable against one of your own. In your place, I would have fought to the death to have the student expelled; I expected nothing less from you. But at the time… that was not in our best interests, and certainly not in Draco's."

McGonagall had to draw several calming breaths before she finally managed to speak again. "I think… no, I certainly understand. Expulsion would have been a death sentence for Mr. Malfoy."

"Even suspension, or supervision within the castle, might have been enough for the Dark Lord to decide that the boy had failed his task. I was not prepared to see him die for an attempted Cruciatus."

McGonagall nodded once, her face grim. "I suppose that makes two rather excessive lectures that Mr. Potter has endured from me on the subject. Goodness, and the first time I rather expected the boy to dissolve before my eyes. He was mortified…. I only hope that you were not too harsh with him today, Severus."

"No favoritism for the famous Harry Potter," Snape mused, unable to keep himself from imagining the boy kowtowed before his Head of House.

Perhaps it was wrong to derive such a perverse pleasure from the scene in his mind…. He'd always thought that his colleague had a particular weakness for her resident celebrity. But after the scene this afternoon, he wondered if instead she'd held him to higher standards. And Minerva's standards were already rather exacting.

"I never would have imagined. Poor Mr. Potter…. But don't fret; I think your tongue-lashing this afternoon was punishment enough."

McGonagall scoffed. "You expect me to believe that you let Potter off with a warning? _You_? After I gave you my blessing—"

"Of course not," Snape cut her off, keeping his face absolutely deadpan. Her utter disbelief was more entertaining than he could have imagined. "I told the boy he'd acted appropriately, and that I disagreed with your sentiments."

McGonagall was unconvinced. "Lines? Detention? Or should I go check the counters—"

"Not a single point was taken from your precious Gryffindor for this incident, I assure you. But if you feel that I've been remiss…." Snape smiled wickedly at her. "Of course, our esteemed headmistress would not be the least bit partisan, so I suppose fifty points—"

"Oh, enough," McGonagall growled, her tone still stiff with astonishment. "Very well, you acted fairly. I suppose you'd like a medal?"

"For fairness?" Snape demanded, pretending to be appalled. "I'd be forced to resign my position as Head of Slytherin. No, rest assured, I have my own motivations. I'll continue to torment Potter if and when it suits me." But then, dropping all levity, Snape continued, "I did want to discuss something, though, concerning this afternoon's confrontation."

"I have been in close conference with all the staff," McGonagall reassured him, "and I promise you, we will get to the bottom of this animosity—"

"Minerva, please," Snape sighed wearily. "This is precisely my point. I… appreciate your vehement defense of my house and your willingness to protect my students, but I can't help but feel that your zeal in this matter stems from something other than your strict sense of justice and order."

"What do you mean?" McGonagall sniffed, bristling a bit. "My concern is the safety of my students, all of them, and—"

"My point precisely. Did you know that when I visited Miss Parkinson in the Hospital Wing, there were three other students under Poppy's care who'd also been attacked by fellow students? The result of a heated discussion, I believe, about quidditch, of all things…. Yet you've not launched an inquisition as to the cause of their injuries."

"Because we very well know that they were not targeted because of their house—"

"Ah, but we do not know that about Miss Parkinson, either, regardless of the discontented whisperings circulating. For all we know, one of my own students attacked her in an attempt to garner sympathy, or get another student into trouble. Unlikely, but the possibility remains."

Snape took a moment to choose his next words, since the subject was rather delicate and he was uncertain of how to approach it. "I believe," he said after a short pause, his voice low and as gentle as he could make it, "that this is a subconscious effort on your part to compensate for the distrust and hatred you had for me for the entirety of the last year."

"Severus, no—"

Snape held up a hand to her. "You sent me a poisoned flask of wine for Christmas."

At that McGonagall turned the brightest shade of red he'd ever seen on her. "I—we—I thought you didn't—"

"A clever ploy and a worthy attempt on my life," Snape praised her, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Very carefully done… I assume you all collaborated to make certain that no detail was overlooked? And that you were rather disappointed that I didn't bother to enjoy such a fine vintage from Lucius' reserves? Or that I did not serve it to the Carrows, at the very least?"

"Severus," Minerva croaked, her voice harsh, "if we'd only known—"

"For Merlin's sake, I'm not trying to blame you for attempting to poison me! I would have done the same in your place. I'm grateful you didn't succeed, of course, and perhaps a touch insulted that you thought so little of my talents as a potions master. There are few poisons that slip by me. But my point is that you surely must feel some needless, pent-up guilt concerning the level of animosity between us this past year. Another Gryffindor affliction, if I'm not mistaken."

Minerva pressed her lips together into a thin white line. Her eyes were filled with a terrible sadness, one that Snape could not understand. Shame or guilt, perhaps, would have been reasonable, but that was not all that was there. She seemed genuinely upset by something, though he could not begin to fathom what.

"My point," Snape huffed, "is that you're channeling this guilt into an unreasonable crusade for justice for my Slytherins. And while I _do_ appreciate the sentiment, and the intention behind it, I have to insist that you tone it down. Because your next victim might not take an undeserved tirade as well as Potter, you understand, and we are already a little too close to an inter-house war for my comfort. The situation requires a delicate touch."

The conversation died for a moment. Snape tried to distract himself by continuing to read his contract, but the tension in the room kept him from truly concentrating.

McGonagall, for her part, laced her fingers tightly together and sat very stiffly, though Snape could make out, from the corner of his eye, a slight tremor in her arms.

The crackle of flames in the hearth and the ticking of a magical clock were the only sounds to fill the pregnant silence stretching between them.

Snape watched McGonagall swallow once. Twice. At last she spoke.

"I will try to be more aware," she murmured faintly. "Severus… I cannot tell you how glad I am to have you here. And I am ashamed to admit that I never, in all the years I have known you, thought I would feel so grateful to have you on the staff."

The sincerity of her words settled uncomfortably in Snape's stomach. He had the sudden urge to sign his name hastily and excuse himself. But it was as if he were fixed with a Sticking Charm in his seat, unable to even push himself to his feet.

Thankfully McGonagall had not finished, because the potions master was honestly at a loss for words.

"I regret that I did not see you for who you are much sooner."

Snape cleared his throat uncomfortably, unable to meet the headmistress' eyes. "I'm no hero," he muttered, "and I've no wish to be held up as one. There are dark stains on my soul—"

"You have walked a hard path, Severus, and alone. You clawed your way out of the darkness. Hero or no, that took great strength and conviction, and it makes you all the more admirable."

Snape felt his discomfort grow tenfold. He hastily gathered up the pages of his contract in one fell swoop. "I need to be on my way," he excused himself, and turned to leave. He called over his shoulder, "I'll be certain to owl this to you once I've finished reviewing it."

"You never fled from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, but honest praise scares you silly?" McGonagall called, her tone suddenly filled with challenge and amusement.

Snape had no clever response for her, so he pretended that he hadn't heard, instead making his way down the moving spiral staircase post-haste.

Really, he couldn't deny that he would gladly choose the Cruciatus curse over a personal conversation any day.

AN: Thanks again for all the reviews and favorites and such! I love hearing from you guys, and thanks so much for reading. If you have thoughts on things you'd like to see, I'm more than happy to hear your ideas! I have a general plot idea here (no spoilers, sorry), but I'm more than happy to make fluffy little detours.


	9. Chapter 9

Well, it was only natural that he should try to move things along. Harry figured that Snape not only not taking points, but not even lecturing him after the Malfoy incident, was enough of a green light. He'd tried deciphering that damned text once more without Hermione's help, but it was no use. He had as much information as he'd ever have. If only he could remember even one little bit of that theoretical nonsense.

Though standing here outside Snape's door, staring in at the man as he worked, now this plan suddenly seemed ill-advised.

"Mr. Potter." Snape stared up calmly from his desk, quill still gripped in his hand, an eyebrow arched in question, and perhaps the slightest hint of annoyance.

Harry shifted nervously from foot to foot, the parchment with his (well, Hermione's) notes clutched tightly in his sweaty palm. "Professor. I've finished looking over Ramkin's theory, and I thought we could go over it—"

Snape's lips thinned. "You've discovered something useful?"

Harry swallowed thickly. "Um, yes?"

"You do realize," Snape began slowly, "that Ramkin's theory has been debunked by at least two other sources on the list I gave you, and that the only promising part of his writings was his emphasis on the permanent formation of relationship between signifier and signified via the creation of an incantation?"

Harry blinked, willing that string of words to make sense in his mind. He resisted the urge to pull out his parchment and desperately read through it to find something to say. "Um…."

"I'll take that as a 'no'." Snape's eyes fell back to his work. "Please refrain from disturbing me until Miss Granger has discovered something that is actually of use, Mr. Potter. I've just taken on a number of additional duties and my free time has become somewhat limited." The quill paused over a length of parchment, and Snape's cool eyes flickered back up briefly, filled with a mundane sort of contempt. "In fact, it occurs to me that Miss Granger must be equally overwhelmed by her commitments, so refrain from pestering her as well."

Harry shuffled a bit forward, his heart thudding. This shouldn't be so nerve-wracking, but it was. He hated that Snape thought he was stupid and lazy; he hated that this was so far beyond him. "Professor, are there texts I could read so that—well, you know. So that I might be able to understand all of this and be a little bit useful."

Snape's brow furrowed slightly. "Potter, this is an extremely complicated subject, even for dedicated scholars. It is highly unlikely that you will gain more than a rudimentary grasp of concepts, even if you were to devote significant time to the subject. I… appreciate your persistence, but I advise against pursuing this folly. You've better uses for your time."

No, he didn't. But Snape would never see that. "Please, sir." He knew better than to angle for any other kind of association. Snape would hex him back out the door in seconds flat. Best to stick with this, as unlikely as it seemed that it would get him anywhere.

Snape cast his quill down and pushed a hand through his hair, a gesture of exasperation. "I don't suppose you'll give this up."

Harry felt a faint grin stretch his lips. "No, sir."

"Very well. Surprisingly enough, the theory of spell creation intertwines heavily with Muggle philosophical movements, particularly those related to the relationship between the abstract, or the signified, and the forms used to represent the signified abstract, the signifier. In spell-crafting this goes far beyond the philosophical abstract, as the bond formed between gesture and language—the signifier—and the abstract—the function of the magic called upon—becomes a permanent linkage."

Harry nodded slowly, desperately trying to appear as though everything Snape had said did not sound like Greek.

Snape stared at him for a moment, then dropped his eyes and began massaging a temple with one hand. "The magical power we call on is something that is far beyond words or description. It is a raw force that alters the very world before us, adjusting the natural laws in our favor. You follow so far?"

"Yeah." Actually, now that Snape was using normal language, Harry was sort of fascinated. He'd never thought much about what magic actually _was_ , having never gotten much past marveling at its very existence. "So, we somehow use words to call on that."

Snape nodded to his desk, apparently finding the conversation too taxing to lift his head. "Words and gesture. In normal context, both are slippery and transient. For example…." Snape lifted his head slightly and searched over his desk for a moment before selecting a thin book. "I can call this a tome. I can call this a book, or a volume, or a novel, a text, a publication, and so forth. All of these are established referents in our language, used to represent the abstract concept of this." He tapped the book cover. "I can choose another language as well, which has already established a distinct series of sounds to communicate this concept—therefore, I can also call it a _Buch_ , a _livre_ , a _libro,_ and so on. These are established and accepted. However, what is to stop me from calling this a chair, and in my mind choosing to associate that series of sounds, that posturing of the mouth and emission of certain syllables, with the abstract concept of this?" Another tap to the cover of the book for emphasis.

"Right," Harry agreed excitedly. This was actually kind of making sense. "Like, I could decide to call it a—a google-nurgle—and refer to it as a google-nurgle—"

"Say that asinine phrase one more time, Potter, and I will hex your mouth shut," Snape warned. Harry couldn't tell if the man was serious or not.

"I can make up whatever word I want to represent it," Harry concluded a bit sheepishly. "So—with magic, if you were making up a new spell, couldn't you just pick whatever sounds you wanted, as long as _you_ believe them to mean a certain thing?"

"Oh, certainly, Potter," Snape agreed sarcastically. He drew his wand. "Why bother making up sounds, though? Why not use words that already mean something to us? For example, turn into a pig!" Snape brandished his wand at his desk, and, of course, nothing happened. Snape's sarcasm somehow managed to grow thicker. "Well, isn't that odd. And here I'd thought you'd solved a mystery that centuries of scholars have grappled with."

Harry felt his cheeks heat. "I didn't say—I was just asking a question."

"An exceedingly stupid question," Snape admonished him, replacing his wand, "that you might have answered yourself had you but spent two seconds pondering it before blurting it out. _Think_ before you speak."

Harry nodded to the ground. "Right." _Idiot_ , he scolded himself. "Okay, so there's way more to it than that. You said something about—about the bond between the, uh, the signifier"—Snape dipped his head slightly in confirmation—"and the signified, which is to say the magic called on, becoming permanent. So it's just figuring that out, really, not trying to find the right words. How does that even happen, then?"

Snape sighed, the hand returning to his temple. " _That_ , Mr. Potter, is where the complexity of the theory begins. If we had the key to forming such a bond, any crackpot wizard could invent a dozen new spells in a given day. There are a dozen threads of thought, ranging from language latency to innate magical talent to gradual expansion. And no, I am not about to detail each of those. If you wish to gain a grasp of the subject, begin by re-reading— _carefully_ , mind—Ramkin's theory, this time knowing that concepts such as grammatical and linguistic alignment are pure bunk. Then read Saussure's essay, 'The Application of Semiology in Spell Creation'. There is a translated copy in the library. _Finally,_ read Castlecrack's 'Permanence of the Signifier: A Speculative Treatise'. Once you have carefully reviewed those three writings and have fodder for intelligent discussion, or at the very least a series of non-idiotic questions, you may return to further pester me. Agreed?"

"Um—can you—I need you to repeat those," Harry mumbled, dropping his bag and fumbling for a spare bit of parchment.

Snape sighed heavily, but obliged him.

Harry prepared to leave as soon as he had tucked the parchment away in a pocket of his bag, but paused at the door. Snape had already returned to his work, but Harry decided he would risk interrupting the professor.

"Sir… is there anything I can do to help you? I really appreciate you taking extra time to teach me, and I'd like to make up for it as best I can." There. Snape couldn't hate him too much for that, could he?

Snape lifted his head, quill pausing once more, his dark eyes piercing Harry with all the intensity one might devote to some grotesque, exotic species of insect. Seconds ticked by in oppressive silence. Finally, Snape replied evenly, "Yes."

Harry's heart leapt slightly. Another chance, then, more than a long list of indecipherable texts. Maybe something he could actually do.

"Stay out of trouble."

And just as quickly as it had risen Harry's heart sank. He didn't even have the heart for a verbal response. He just nodded his head and fled from the office, shouldering his book bag as he went.

XXXXX

Severus debated pouring himself a few fingers of Firewhiskey. It wasn't as though the girl weren't of age, now, was it? Surely she was old enough to conceive of her professors indulging in a few vices in their spare time.

Except this would not be his spare time. This was an official meeting with a student of his house, and he was the Deputy Headmaster. He could not afford to drop decorum. With Draco, yes; with Pansy, no.

But Merlin, Potter was a pill. He could still see those hopeful green eyes, _her_ eyes, lingering on him, as though he might cave and invite and invite the boy to spend cozy evenings in his private chambers so that they might become the best of friends. He could still hear that disgustingly respectful tone, too, filled with pleading. _Is there anything I can do to help you_?

Yes, he wanted to snap. Leave me the hell alone, you badgering little twit. I don't need your pity.

Oh, yes, Minerva would love to hear about that. And inevitably Albus would hear about it one way or another, because every loathsome portrait in this place gossiped, and then Severus would be invited up for another heart-to-heart at the most inconvenient hour conceivable, out of consideration for dear Severus' privacy. Yes, an hour lecture starting at midnight all about how sweet and gentle and Lily-like good Harry was, and how Severus would do well to let the boy into his life so that he might begin to mend some of the wounds on his heart. Or some such nonsense. The same nonsense Albus had fed him time and time again over his tenure.

Well, he would wash the distaste of it all away a bit later, when he could nurse his scotch before his own hearth without fear of interruption.

The polite, tentative knock came precisely at eight, just as Severus knew it would.

"Enter," he commanded.

Pansy Parkinson came in, uninjured now from the looks of her but nearly unrecognizable for the absence of any pride from her posture. She was shrunk down now, her dark hair parted over her shoulders in protective curtains, her lips just a touch too pale. "Professor," she greeted him, not lifting her eyes.

"Miss Parkinson. Come, sit. I trust you've made a full recovery?"

Parkinson dropped into one of the hard visitor's chairs before his desk. "Yes, sir."

"And you are still unable to tell us anything about the attack?" Severus pressed, knowing full well that the girl's answer would remain unchanged.

"No, sir."

Severus leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers before him before fixing her with his cool stare. "Most unfortunate. I fear that without any knowledge we will merely have to assume that one or several individuals have it in for you. Clearly there is only one course of action."

The girl's panicked eyes darted up. "Sir?" she stuttered breathily, her hands fisting in her skirt.

"I'm afraid we will have to send you away, Miss Parkinson, until the culprit or culprits have been caught and dealt with. We cannot risk your life, you understand."

"But—Professor! I have to finish this year, I have to…."

 _Find a post. Establish an income to support my impoverished family. Begin the long crawl back into wizarding society's good graces_.

"It is most unfortunate," Severus agreed in what was, for him, a gentle tone. "However, we cannot continue to risk your life when the threat is, as of yet, completely unknown. You will be removed until we have gathered more information and have at least managed to develop a plan to protect you."

"They won't kill me," Parkinson pleaded, twisting her skirts further. "Please, I can't fall behind, I can't…."

"How can you possibly know that _they_ will not kill you?" Severus inquired, arching a brow. Good. The girl was slipping at long last.

"I…." Her eyes fell again, back to her lap. "It's… Professor, all I know are rumors and what I heard when… when they attacked me."

"Ah, but Miss Parkinson, did you not repeatedly insist that you knew nothing? I cannot have you making up false information merely because you hope to remain here. Now, I will contact your parents this evening and arrange for you to Floo home—"

"Professor, please, I'm not making it up. I didn't want to say before. I—I was threatened. I don't know who, they disguised their voices, but they said that it would be worse for us if we tried to fight—"

" 'Us', who?" Severus inquired.

"D-death Eaters," she breathed, and Severus was not surprised to see the prickle of tears in her eyes. "They've already attacked Draco twice, but he fought them off."

 _Draco_. Severus clenched his teeth, his hand automatically gripping the edge of his desk. He would need to have another little _chat_ with the boy, it seemed. "Miss Parkinson, there are no Death Eaters in this school. Am I to understand that this little group of whomever has taken it upon itself to punish Slytherins with connections to the Dark Lord and the last war?"

The girl nodded into her lap. Normally Severus would admonish a student for such a response, but he could tell that the girl was already fragile and on the verge of a true breakdown, so he restrained himself.

"And am I to also understand that my Slytherins are aware of this vigilante group, and yet have not had the sense to report anything to myself or the headmistress?"

Parkinson's hands flexed nervously against the fabric of her skirt. "Daphne went to Professor Slughorn, but he said there wasn't any proof, and that there was nothing he could do. The rest of us agreed that we could only watch out for each other. That we couldn't fight back because they'd expel us for hurting any other student, even in self-defense, and none of us needed that."

Of course Slughorn was useless. When had he been anything but? He was even a mediocre Potions Master. Not that Severus would say as much, because _he_ certainly didn't want the post back.

"Miss Parkinson, _I_ am once more your Head of House, and I certainly intend to do something about this. While I understand your concerns—and I know that they are well-founded—I cannot condone you and your peers' decision to keep this hidden. You are a Prefect, are you not?"

The girl's head dropped even lower. "Yes, sir."

"You have a duty to support and protect your fellow students. You cannot uphold that duty if you hide critical information such as this from your Professors. You must trust _us_ to handle things, is that clear?"

"I trust you, Professor," the girl mumbled. How he detested mumbling. "But—the others? The Headmistress would never believe us, and the other professors despise us—"

"I quite assure you that the Headmistress will jump at any chance to defend Slytherin. In fact, just yesterday she seemed ready to expel Harry Potter himself for an infraction against Mr. Malfoy."

Parkinson's head lifted a fraction, her eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Draco wasn't lying?" Her lips pressed together thoughtfully for a moment, then she shook her head to herself. "It doesn't matter. They're clever, whoever they are. They never show their faces and they disguise their voices. Draco thinks they're just trying to provoke us into attacking so that we can be painted as belligerent and bloodthirsty. He thinks that they have backing in the Ministry, and that those people are waiting for any excuse to pass an act to have us all expelled."

Oh, yes, he was definitely going to have a nice, long chat with Draco about these interesting "suspicions".

"That may be the case. However, simply ignoring the problem will not make it go away. Careful investigation and observation on our part, however, might allow us to gather enough evidence to have the students responsible for these acts disciplined or removed."

Parkinson shook her head to herself again. "It's not worth it, Professor. There'll be an outcry. They'll say we're lying, that we made it all up because we're mad that—that we lost the war…." The girl's voice hitched noticeably. "They might change their minds about the pardons. They might—they might take everything from us, instead of almost everything. They might send our parents to Azkaban! If we just keep our heads down—"

"Miss Parkinson," Severus interrupted, working to keep his voice level. Damn it, if he ever found out who had put these thoughts in his students' heads, he would see to it that they paid for their crimes tenfold. Parkinson, he knew, had young siblings at home. For all the girl's many flaws, she was likely picturing them every day bereft of her parents. Likely picturing herself dropping out of school to care for them, or seeing them adopted into families who'd lost members in the war, who would hate everything those small children represented and take it out on them.

Didn't he know firsthand how easy it was to make children pay for the sins of their parents?

"Miss Parkinson, I am fully aware of the… delicate… political climate. But things are nowhere near as dire as you make them out to be, and I assure you, you have many champions beyond the walls of our House. Did you not receive a card and a visit from the Savior himself while you were laid up?"

Parkinson snorted derisively, though instead of the sound being filled with arrogance, it rang hollow with hopelessness. "Covering his tracks," she muttered, brushing a non-existent piece of lint from her skirt. "Him and his merry little band. I—I bet he's enjoying it. It's probably his little brigade—"

"It is not," Severus assured her, his words growing sharp. "First of all, Potter lacks the wits to be so subtle. There is a reason the Hat placed him in the House of the brash, arrogant, and foolish. Secondly, the boy has asked after you ever since this incident—"

"To cover his tracks, Professor!" Parkinson insisted. "He wants to know if you suspect—"

"No, you fool, he does not! This is the boy who, upon having the Dark Lord cornered at wandpoint—his parents' murderer, the source of all the misery in his short life, the very monster who'd tried to kill him twice—implored the man to feel remorse for his many sins, knowing full well that there was literally less than a shred of the man's soul left. The boy who did not cast the Killing Curse, or the Cruciatus, or even a painful hex, but rather attempted to disarm one of the most powerful wizards this world has ever seen. That boy is guileless and brimming over with generosity and forgiveness, and his sense of justice is carved in his very bones. And he will, Miss Parkinson, assist however he can in putting a stop to this rash of assaults. Do you doubt me? Do you doubt my judgment?"

At least the girl was sensible enough to say, "no, professor", even if her words lacked conviction.

Severus sighed, his headache returning. A Painkilling Potion before the firewhiskey, then. "In the future, you and all of your peers will come to me directly with any information they have related to this incident. _Any,_ Miss Parkinson. You and your fellow Prefects will call a House Meeting this evening in order to inform everyone of this. Additionally, you will tell them that they will henceforth travel in pairs, and that all first and second years are to be escorted by a member of the upper forms at all times. Failure to obey this new policy will result in detention with me. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," the girl agreed quietly. "Does—does this mean—"

"I will not send you home. Yet. If I feel you are failing to take my directives seriously, or are withholding information, you and anyone I feel is in danger will be removed until we have gotten to the bottom of this." _Because this administration, unlike the previous one, will be proactive about protecting the lives of students. We will not wait until a bloody Basilisk has petrified a handful of students before we consider the necessary measures to keep the rest of the student body safe._ "Do we have an understanding, Miss Parkinson?"

"Yes, Professor."

"Good. You are dismissed. And ten points from Slytherin for your poor judgment."

A bright blush heated the girl's face. She mumbled another, "yes, professor" before fleeing his office.

Severus eased back in his chair for a moment, allowing himself to rest. God, what an absolute mess.

Of course it was only natural that there remained students who felt the losses of the last year so keenly, who remembered the weight of the injustices heaped upon them by the last regime, that they would be compelled to seek revenge. Severus could even sympathize with them. He'd expected a spike in the number of impromptu duels and nasty pranks against members of his house. But this?

Oh, why in the blessed name of Merlin did they have to organize into a cohesive unit? Why did they have to know how to threaten and blackmail? Why could this not be a case of adolescent rage, hot and irrational until it was burnt out, instead of this cold, calculated fury?

Draco, he thought, had better have some good plans for approaching Potter and forming some kind of alliance. He and his friends were likely going to need it in the coming weeks.

Deciding that his quarters were too far away, even by Floo, Severus summoned his scotch from an inconspicuous cabinet beneath one of his bookshelves and poured himself a good tumbler full. Then, because he knew that it would not be wholly appropriate for a student to walk in on this scene, he drew his wand and closed and locked his office door.

Thank God Minerva had bought him this bottle before the start of term. Though at the rate he was going, he would need another before long.

 **A/N: Dear lovely amazing readers,** **This story is not abandoned. I offer my humblest apologies for the long delay (wow, oops, over a year). I will continue to forge ahead as I am able, though I have the terrible tendency of jumping between incomplete fics, and then starting new ones, without actually finishing the ones I've already started. The good news is that I have two other unpublished fics of about 30k and 63k that I plan to complete and post (well, this might actually be bad news for some, as they represent two more distractions for me...). If you want to blame someone, blame the awesome community at Potions and Snitches and all of the tantalizing challenges they post. Also probably me for my lack of discipline. And I suppose all the other HP fanfic authors out there and their amazing and inspiring works.** **Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter, and as always, I hope to get another out soon. My current plan is to refocus my attentions on this, Snape's Promise, and For Lily's Sake. Thank you all for your continued readership, and feel free to feed my ever-starving ego with your lovely comments. I appreciate every single one, and will do my best to respond to questions and suggestions in future A/N.** **Cheers! ~Mel**


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